


Sloane Rangers & Lager Lovelies

by Dryad



Category: Law & Order:UK, The Bill, The X-Files
Genre: Crossover, Dubious Consent, F/M, M/M, Mytharc, Pre-XF, Strong NC17, casefile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-10
Updated: 2012-10-09
Packaged: 2017-11-16 00:24:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Green and pleasant land' indeed, he mused, shuffling along<br/>with the crowd, hoping to board the Circle line before the doors<br/>closed. He couldn't imagine London ever being anything less than<br/>dirty and grey and filled with people he didn't like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Big Smoke

**Author's Note:**

> **This story may be triggering for sex trauma.** No  
>  minors are injured in this story.
> 
>  
> 
> _*Special thanks to **Stephen** for Britpicking and grammar! (well, half of it, anyway)*_
> 
>  
> 
>  **Suggested listening:** [Mulder's Oxford Playlist](http://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLCKcnrBehc_zsOvXwQa4mrsngaKlSFHOY)  
>  Alternatively: Underground 80s' on somafm.com
> 
>  
> 
> **Pronunciation guide:**
> 
> Sian - feminine of Sean/Shawn  
> Diarmuid - DER-mot (mostly)  
> Rhodri - RO-d-ree (d is flipped)  
> Seonag - SHOW-nah

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I was a modest, good-humoured boy. It is Oxford that has made me  
insufferable.  
-Max Beerbohm

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

~1~ THE BIG SMOKE ~1~

 

Phoebe leaned against the door frame in all her naked glory, one  
corner of her mouth upturned. The look in her eyes was both sly and  
sexy as she considered him, lying in her bed, equally naked under a  
fine white cotton sheet. He grinned, hoping she'd notice the twitching  
of his groin.

"You've got a phone call. Someone named Sykes?"

He considered ignoring it, but he didn't care for Sykes and Sykes didn't  
care for him, which probably meant the call was important. Tossing  
aside the sheet, he rose and headed towards the lounge, neatly  
sidestepping her grab at his erection. If she wasn't going to play,  
neither was he. He snagged the phone and flopped on the couch,  
immediately bounced back up again. The Brits loved their leather  
sofas but the things were damned cold when you weren't wearing  
clothes. "Yeah?"

"Mulder, there are at least fifteen messages for you from a Mr. Wilson?  
I know, because I answered every damned last one of the calls, which  
started at three in the fucking morning."

"Must be a wrong number, I don't know anyone named Wilson,"  
Mulder said, eying the French Rococo mantle clock and wondering if  
Phoebe had made any coffee. "Sorry you had to keep getting up."

"No, these are definitely for you. You're supposed to be at the  
American Embassy by eleven - "

He frowned, glanced at the clock again. "It would have been nice to  
know this before noon."

"Hey, you're the one who doesn't leave a number when he takes off for  
the weekend! You're lucky you're even getting this at all, you fucking  
prick. If Gemma hadn't stopped by and told me where you were - "

"Fuck off," Mulder snapped, and hung up. He stood still for a long  
moment, wracking his brain for someone named Wilson. Didn't ring a  
bell. On the other hand, it couldn't hurt to call home. Phoebe walked  
through the room softly, her wares now hidden beneath a bathrobe  
and slippers. Dialing quickly, he said, "Gotta call home."

"Don't take long; my sister will kill me when she sees the bill."

Stung, he muttered, "I'll pay for it."

"You'd better," she shouted from the hallway. "I'm making a fresh pot  
of tea."

"Okay," he called back, listening to the endless ringing on the line at  
the same time. Eventually he hung up, then dialed his father's  
number. Once more, no one answered. There was no reason for both  
of his parents to be absent from their respective homes at this time on  
a Saturday morning. Mrs. Lowry was probably up, except she was a  
busybody and he didn't want the entire island to know he wanted to  
reach his parents. But the Embassy...that didn't sound good.

Foregoing a shower in his anxiety, he dressed in jeans, shirt, and  
sweater, unbelievably glad he'd taken his father's advice and always  
bringing his passport with him when he stayed with Phoebe.  
Speaking of whom. "Phee, I've got to run out, I'll be back in a while."

"Wait, where are you going?" she cried, hurrying into the hall just as  
he opened the front door.

"Be back soon," he replied, shutting the door on her plaintive, "Fox!"

Ignoring out the imperious looks and the odd rude comment, he ran to  
the Sloane Square Tube Station and bought a day pass. 'Green and  
pleasant land' indeed, he mused, shuffling along with the lunchtime  
crowd, hoping to board the Circle line before the train doors closed. He  
couldn't imagine London ever being anything less than dirty and grey  
and filled with people he didn't like. It was standing room only and  
no matter how he shifted, someone kept touching his ass. The  
teenaged girl in front of him smirked when he made an obvious check  
of her hands.

Less than a minute later he was in Victoria Station, forced to walk at a  
snail's pace. Another hot, crowded, and miserable ride later, he  
disembarked at Green Park and ran all the way to Grosvenor Square.  
Once there he stopped, bent over to catch his breath. After a moment  
he stripped off his sweater and sat down on one of the nearby  
benches. Growing up on the island, he thought he knew all about  
moist air and mugginess, but London always seemed to be  
perpetually on the verge of rain, no matter what the season or amount  
of sunshine. So he was hot, which meant he was sweating, which  
meant the guards would look at him funny as he approached the  
sharply angled concrete monstrosity known as the American  
Embassy.

Thankfully there was a breeze, and while he cooled down he watched  
the police doing themselves no favors by arresting a small group of  
protestors - more about nuclear disarmament, the dregs of the Miner's  
Strike, even a couple of anti-police signs, clearly holdovers from the  
recent riots in Brixton. From where he sat, at the opposite corner from  
where the action was taking place, it looked rough, lots of shoving and  
shouting and oh, batons being used. Looking around, he could see  
everyone else in the square watching as well, the dog walkers, people  
in suits eating their lunch, passersby.

The sweat hadn't quite cooled from his brow when he entered the  
Embassy. After showing his passport to multiple people and being the  
subject of at least one less than surreptitious phone call, he was given  
a visitor's badge and shown to the sixth floor by an older woman  
with badly cut blonde bob and blue eyeshadow. She knocked once on  
the third unremarkable door of the hallway, opened it and waved him  
in.

"Fox," his father said gravely, rising from behind the desk.

" _Dad?_ What - ?" Mulder took in the dark brown decor, the rows of legal  
books along one wall, the bright yellow binders along the other, the  
three men sitting in chairs at their ease before his father's desk, eying  
him without expression. He pulled his wandering thoughts together.  
"I'm sorry, I only just got your message."

"It's fine," his father said, coming around the desk. He handed Mulder a  
card with three phone numbers scrawled on it. "This is Mr Smith and  
Mr Jones."

Mulder glanced at the third man, but was not introduced.

"They're going to be looking out for you while I'm away. If  
you have any problems you call them immediately."

"Away?" Mulder asked, not really understanding the words. He  
whispered harshly, "I didn't even know you were here. Are you going  
home? Is Mom okay?"

"Your mother is fine," His father looked away, brought his pipe out of  
his pocket, then returned to his desk. He opened a drawer and began  
tamping the pipe with shreds of tobacco.

"Dad?"

"Yes, I'll be away for some time. I don't know when I'll be coming  
back."

For this he had left the promise of sex with Phoebe? Mulder snorted,  
spun and took a step back towards the door. "Well, have a good trip."

"Fox!"

He turned around, unable to disobey his father's tone of voice. And  
yet...there was something in his father's eyes - an appeal? A warning?  
Or merely anger that his son showed such disrespect?

"Remember, call if you need anything, anything at all."

On the way back he stopped at WH Smith's and bought the new Radio  
Times and the weekend edition of USA Today, rag that it was, plus a  
Kinder Surprise because somehow he'd become addicted to the  
damned toys inside the chocolate eggs. He also grabbed two fish  
suppers as a late lunch, added a bottle of Irn-Bru (how on earth the  
bright orange soda had become an acquired taste was a mystery) for  
himself and an Orangina for Phoebe, then headed back to the flat.

He opened the front door of the flat to find Phoebe, still in her  
bathrobe, kissing a man he didn't know. A kiss on the lips, and no  
peck, either.

She turned to him brightly, without a trace of shame. "Fox! Vince was  
just leaving."

The man brushed by Mulder, shot him a sidelong glance as he opened  
the door and slipped out into the shadowed hallway. Mulder watched  
the man until he trotted down the stairs. Had he smelled like her or  
was it just his imagination playing up over the scent of warm fish and  
malt vinegar?

"I'm sorry," said Phoebe. "I completely forgot to give this to you."

Mulder took the business card she proffered. The logo of the  
Metropolitan Police was in the corner, a name and a number printed  
on the front, a handwritten note on the back asking him to call as soon  
as possible. "When did this arrive?"

She shrugged helplessly. "Maybe Monday? You weren't here."

With pursed lips he shoved the card into his pocket. There were times  
it felt like she didn't have two synapses to rub together. And why did  
that always seem to happen when it was something important to  
him? He just didn't want to think about it.

"So Mulder, does this mean you've been a bad boy?"

"No," He stepped around her to go into the living room - he was never  
going to call it the 'lounge', damnit - but she grabbed his arm and  
pressed him to the wall so hard he dropped their lunch. Once again he  
was surprised by how tall she was, how much she could physically  
push him around, how easily his excitement arose whenever she  
touched him.

"I think you have been a bad boy," she murmured, a hard glint in her  
eyes. She brought his other arm behind his back, twisted something  
sharp and cutting around his wrists. There was a high pitched plastic  
scream as she tightened it and he realized it was one of the long tie-  
wraps he'd found under the kitchen sink while searching for more  
garbage bags. There was no way to get free of them without using a  
knife or scissors.

"What the fuck? Get these off of me!" Jerking his arms only proved how  
tight the tie-wraps were; if he wasn't careful he could cut himself quite  
badly. "Phee! _Phoebe!_ "

Sex with Phoebe was always an experiment, and this time was no  
exception. Not bothering with any niceties like kissing or biting or  
even undressing him, after walking him into the kitchen she merely  
unbuttoned his jeans and shoved them down just far enough, re-tying  
his wrists to the back fretwork of the chair with a long red scarf she'd  
left on the table the previous day. The position was awkward; he was  
practically sitting on his hands.

Now that he was at her mercy, one corner of her mouth upturned  
archly, she kissed him, stroked his cock with a too rough grip that felt  
like she was trying to strip off the top layer of skin. Freight Train  
Phoebe was rolling and nothing short of engine failure was going to  
stop her. Mulder turned away in disgust even as he grew harder.  
"Stop it, let me up," he said, detesting the less-than-convincing tone of  
his own voice.

The slap was unexpected and shocking. A quick, short strike that  
stung and burned his cheek.

"Shut up, Fox," she said with a smirk, untying her bathrobe and  
lowering herself onto him. "You know you love this."

God, she was beyond wet, she was sopping. And, he soon came to  
realize, there would be no attempt at getting him off. Good thing he  
was still primed and ready from their morning's interrupted session.  
If only he could use his hands! He knew she wouldn't regret it - she  
never did.

Phoebe grew fiercer, riding him like the proverbial pony, dropping  
hard onto his thighs. One last time and she juddered against him,  
moaning and clutching at his shoulders. Mulder felt his balls draw up  
tight - he was so close; he bucked up once, twice, grunting at the sweet  
relief of ejaculation and orgasm.

Moments after The pain streaking through his shoulders and wrists  
brought him back to his senses. "Get off," he said, grimacing.

"Mm hmm," she murmured, gently rocking against him.

"Not gonna happen," Although as soon as he spoke he felt the re-  
stirring of interest. Which was funny, because he really was not at all  
interested. He wanted his lunch and his Irn-Bru and a shower, in that  
order. "Let me up."

Phoebe grinned again but didn't stop. Soon enough they were both  
panting, though Mulder only half-heartedly. For him the moment was  
over. Nonetheless, when she shoved her hand between their bodies for  
her own pleasure he couldn't help watching in fascination, taking  
little notes for their next adventure.


	2. Old School ties

~2~ OLD SCHOOL TIES ~2~

 

The journey from London to Oxford wasn't short enough. If anger  
could have sped the train faster, no doubt Mulder would have been at  
the university within a few minutes instead of the hour and a half it  
took. Pushing past a few lingering students in the wide corridor, all  
Mulder could think of was how humiliated he felt after the meeting at  
Duthie Park Station.

Four blocks from Phoebe's sister's flat, at first glance the building  
appeared to be a quaint, picturesque Victorian police station, complete  
with black-fronted cast iron lamppost, a blue sign with white  
lettering that read METROPOLITAN POLICE swinging from it. It was  
only when one passed the gated alley adjacent, panda cars lined up  
neatly, white prisoner transit vans striped in yellow and  
checkerboard parked diagonally behind them, that one understood  
that the police station was rather up to date.

Chief Superintendent Allen Boyle had not been a happy man.  
"Barbara! Get DC Lines up here now!" He had sniffed once,  
straightened his jacket, sat down at his desk. "I don't know what kind  
of game you're playing at, Mr. Mulder, but I don't appreciate being in  
the middle of it."

"Sir, I don't even know why I'm here. I'm just following up on the card  
that was left at my girlfriend's sister's apartment."

Boyle stilled in his seat for a moment. "A senior member of Her  
Majesty's Government strongly suggested you be given leave to  
shadow one of my detectives. In fact, his precise words were 'Let Mr  
Mulder do whatever he needs to do', by which I presume I am fucked if  
I say no."

Mulder shook his head, confused and beginning to get a little angry. "I  
don't know what to tell you, sir. This doesn't have anything to do  
with me, I'm just here to go to Oxford, I don't know - " And then it  
struck him that maybe he did. He rubbed his mouth pensively.  
Movement to his left brought his attention to the door, where a  
balding, mustachioed, brown haired man peered.

"Sir?"

"Ah, Tosh," said Boyle, acid cheer plain in his voice. "This is Mr.  
Mulder. You're his new charge."

Lines glanced at Mulder in confusion. "Sir? I'm _his_ new charge?  
Shouldn't that be the other way around?"

"Apparently not."

"But sir, I've got work to do, cases to finish. DI Bennett and I are just  
closing the Janet Tompkins case; we arrested Polly Papadapoulous  
this morning! And I'm to be in court this afternoon for the CPS."

Boyle shook his head. "This comes from the great and the good.  
Malcolm Bristol is off and Jeremy Conway has been seconded to Pearl  
Street, so I'm assigning you Acting Sergeant status. You'll get the  
paperwork shortly. In the meantime you're off everything until Mr.  
Mulder decides he's through with you."

"Sir," Lines sullenly replied.

There was no question Mulder was on his shit list for forever.

"This isn't Sun Hill, Tosh. You won't find your winning ways working  
half so well here at Duthie Park. Now, Mr. Mulder, you may take your  
leave."

Mulder could feel his face flushing hard, even now smarting from the  
memory. He slowed but didn't bother knocking, slapping the door  
open so hard it bounced off the opposite wall, almost hitting him  
again. Fuming, he said bitterly, "Was it you? Did you pull the strings?  
Because I don't recall asking for any special favors."

Sian closed her eyes briefly and sighed before leaning back in her  
chair. "Diarmuid, Andrew, would you excuse us. Fox, take a seat."

Still angry, he had to wait for the two students to collect their papers  
and books, hastily stuffing them into canvas book bags before leaving,  
shooting worried glances at Sian all the while. "Don't worry," he spat,"  
I'm not going to do anything."

"I'm happy to hear it," a deep, sonorous voice said from the doorway.

He felt his face grow hotter and suddenly wished his whole approach  
had been different. Everyone back home said he was a hot head and  
here he was again, proving them right once more.

"Edward," Sian said. "Glad you stopped by."

"I heard Hurricane Mulder from down the hall," said Dr. Edward  
Goodacre, England's primary Forensic Psychologist and Emeritus  
Professor at Shrewsbury College. He was, with Dr Sian Powell,  
Mulder's mentor. Tall, but thick waisted with thinning white hair and  
merry bright blue eyes, Edward sat down in the over-stuffed wing  
back chair by the fireplace and sighed heavily, wincing as he shifted to  
get more comfortable. He looked at Mulder and mildly said, "Yes, Fox,  
it was me. Sian had the initial idea, but I put it into fruition. Are you  
very mad?"

Deflated and sulky, Mulder dropped into one of the empty seats. "You  
should have asked me first."

Edward shrugged. "The opportunity arose, I pushed it through. You  
need the practical and we thought this was the best way to  
accomplish it."

"Applying through regular channels would have taken too long,"  
added Sian, tucking her ash-brown hair behind her ears. "Even lowly  
professionals have to be thoroughly vetted before going on ride-  
alongs, Fox. You're lucky Edward knows people, even more lucky they  
agreed considering the topic of study. And without Rhodri's help you  
wouldn't have even gotten as far as you have."

Which was true. Mulder stared out the window, unable to look Sian in  
the eye. "You'll thank him for me?"

"Of course," she said. "But keep in mind, Fox, that many on the  
committee were displeased to be overruled by what they believe is a  
ridiculous waste of time and money. I doubt there's ever been a study  
of alien abductees and the occult in abnormal criminal psychology  
anywhere in the world. You'll have to keep a low profile and work as  
efficiently as possible. Edward, do you have anything to add?"

"Between the three of us we've pulled a few files for you, Fox. They're  
in my office on the green filing cabinet. You can get them when we're  
done here. Now, let's talk about methodology."


	3. Fog in Channel - Continent Cut Off

~3~ FOG IN CHANNEL - CONTINENT CUT OFF ~3~

 

Physically, Portia Green was a curvier version of her sister,  
everything a man could want. Her crimson lips were swollen and  
lush, her breasts full, her hips wide. She was neither skinny nor fat,  
her hair glossy dark brown and curled about her face like a lover's  
caress.

Ptolemy Green matched his two siblings in looks - dark hair, large  
dark eyes, the kind of ruby lips little boys have but soon grow out of.  
He was the quintessential Englishman - handsome, tall, slim, ever so  
slightly eccentric. He would not have been out of place in an  
Edwardian drama, taking the Grand Tour of Europe.

Their parents, Peter and Penelope, looked like their children (patrician,  
well bred, cultured), all of whom had gone or were going to Oxford.  
Peter was a Cambridge man but the gene had been passed to its rival.  
Penelope, of course, hadn't attended university, yet that didn't matter  
as she had been raised in Hong Kong and Taiwan, Thailand and  
Australia, the daughter of a civil servant for whom nothing more was  
expected than to marry well and produce offspring.

"What about rugby?" asked Peter, pouring himself another cup of tea.  
He added a lump of sugar and a squeeze of lemon, stirred briefly  
before sitting back in his chair. "Or do you prefer American football?"

Mulder shook his head slightly. "Neither appeals to me."

"Golf? Cricket? Footy? Tennis?"

"Soccer's alright, but honestly I prefer basketball, swimming,  
running, rowing," he said, then shrugged. "Besides, I'm with Mark Twain on  
golf."

"What did he say?" asked Penelope.

"'It's nothing but a good walk spoiled.'"

Penelope laughed politely and took a sip of her tea, leaving Mulder  
feeling foolish. It was just like being back home, except he didn't know  
these people, not really, and they were upper middle class English,  
where propriety was to be observed at all times. He hated it even as  
he played along. Hypocrites, all of them. Including himself.

She offered him the plate of Bourbon biscuits. "So is this your first time  
abroad, Fox?"

"Thank you, no," He waved one hand at the plate. "No, we visited my  
maternal great-grandfather in the Netherlands just after my sister  
was born."

"Oh, how lovely! Did you enjoy yourself?"

"As much as any six year old can," He said, prevaricating. In truth, he  
had loved walking the cobbled streets with his father, leaving his  
mother and unhappy little sister in the house with his Nana and Aunt  
Beatrice. As much as he had immediately loved Samantha, she was  
also a baby. A screaming, red-faced, tiny little creature who rarely  
slept and threw up over everything. His mother was exhausted and  
had no time for him, so his father had simply folded him under his  
wing as if he were the most important boy in the whole entire world.

"Have you had a chance to visit since you've been in England?"

"Unfortunately, no."

"That's a shame. I hope you get the opportunity before you leave," said  
Penelope. "For the atmosphere if nothing else."

Rescue from more inane conversation arrived in the form of Phoebe,  
who also startled the hell out of him by looping her arms around his  
neck from behind his chair without warning. "I'm sorry, Mum, but  
I've got to steal him away for a few minutes. You don't mind, do you?"

"Of course not, dear. Remember we're off to see Abbot's Folly at four."

Phoebe took him by the hand and ran back to the house, 'the country  
pile' as she called it. And it was a pile, too, the spitting image of an  
English cottage as seen on all of those Masterpiece Theater programs  
Mom loved. Cottage, of course, in the English meaning, so it had three  
stories and a basement kitchen, servants' quarters and stables and  
fishing rights, a gatehouse, a chapel, a family cemetery fenced in  
wrought black iron. She led him through corridors paneled in dark  
wood, past dour family portraits and up three flights of stairs into the  
attic. Larger than he expected, the attic ran the length and width of the  
house, dormer windows letting in light - motes of dust danced in the  
dry air - trunks and rolled rugs and cardboard boxes and broken  
chairs and rocking horses and piles in corners covered with dark  
tarpaulin. He really didn't know what they were doing there, but  
couldn't resist the pull of her hand. Surely sex wasn't an option?

"Fox, I've got something to tell you," she said, perching on top of a  
barrel trunk. "I'm pregnant."

He blinked.

"Did you hear me? I said I'm _pregnant_."

"O-o-oh," he stammered, feeling the blood drain from the tips of his  
fingers. The words came out of his mouth before he even realized what  
he said. "Do you want to get married?"

"Married! God no," She wrinkled her nose with displeasure. "I just  
thought you should know before I got rid of it."

Mulder could barely comprehend what was happening: she was  
pregnant, but she wasn't having his baby. "You're on the pill," he  
blurted. "You can't get pregnant on the pill."

"It's not foolproof, Fox," She slid off of the trunk and stepped past,  
tossing her hair as she looked back at him. "Anyway, I just thought  
you should know. We're still going to Paris next weekend, right?"

He followed her out of the attic in a daze, knowing he was walking,  
unable to understand why instead it felt like he was floating. His face  
felt hot; shivers ran down his spine; his armpits were soaked with  
sweat. Maybe this was all a dream and he would wake up at Portia's  
flat, Phoebe asleep at his side on cool white cotton sheets.

He blinked again and was back in the garden, watching Phoebe and  
Ptolemy play tennis in the warm afternoon, the net strung between  
two trees, their parents cheering them in with polite British  
enthusiasm while bees droned pleasantly in the background. The  
jokes his father used to make about him getting a girl in trouble were  
suddenly no longer funny.

"I see she told you," Portia sidled up to him, glanced at him sidelong.

Mulder shoved his hands in his pockets and said nothing.

"Our Phoebe is a bit of a slut, y'know, but she's a good girl at heart."

He looked at her, then, disgusted. "That's not a very nice thing to say  
about your sister."

"Maybe, maybe not. Doesn't make it any less true."

"And what would you know about it?"

She laughed loudly, head falling back on her shoulders to expose her  
long white neck. "Darling, I've lived with her all my life. What makes  
you think I wouldn't know how she behaves?"

There was nothing he could say to that.

In the end he simply went upstairs to his bedroom and tossed the few  
items of clothing and the book he had brought back into his bag.  
Somehow he managed to slip out of the house without anyone but  
Portia noticing, swiftly walking down the drive and to the country  
road. A passing Royal Mail van picked him up, then dropped him off  
at the Coombe Keynes bus stop, where remarkably he was just in time  
to catch the weekly bus and get yet another ride to the train station in  
Wool. The question was, where did he want to go? More to the point,  
where was he least likely to run into Phoebe?

Oxford was too obvious, she knew where he lived. So...back to London.  
Especially since Portia had slipped him her key. He had been loathe to  
take it, but she'd convinced him she could keep Phoebe in Dorset until  
Monday morning. There wasn't a chance in hell he was staying at  
Portia's, though. If Phoebe found out she would make a total case out  
of it, blow it completely out of proportion. That would be her own  
guilt screaming at him, of course.

Ultimately he rented a room in a somewhat seedy B&B two streets  
away. It would do for the remainder of the weekend, and by the time  
Monday rolled around they would both be busy with their studies  
and unlikely to see one another for the rest of the week.


	4. Jo the Waiter

~4~ JO THE WAITER ~4~

 

He had brought school work to London - not that he'd had any  
intention of actually working on much of it besides that one paper -  
but in the light of the day's events even that held little interest. He  
decided he needed a drink and after a quick shower in the common  
bathroom (it was an exceedingly cheap B&B) he dressed and headed to  
the White Horse. The pub was a well known haunt for the Oxbridge  
set in London, and he was comfortable with darkness and the stink of  
cigarettes and alcohol.

As usual for a Friday night, it was hot, loud, and packed. Genesis  
segued into Blue Monday, leading a group of girls to drop their purses  
and start dancing in a circle. Raucous laughter erupted to the left as he  
hung up his coat and like several other people he glanced over to see  
what was going on before heading towards the bar. It was rough  
going, the place stuffed with students smoking and drinking. Pushing  
against the crowd to the bar he caught a whiff of pot, wondered if  
maybe he could score a hit.

"Mulder!"

"Hey, Mulder!"

The shouts came from behind when he was halfway to the bar and  
when he twisted around he saw waving hands by the door. Simon's  
white blond hair shone like a beacon in the smoky room when he  
stood up. He held up a full pint of beer, made a 'come hither' gesture a  
couple of times. Mulder nodded and headed back the way he had  
come, much to the annoyance of the people he had just passed.

Minutes later he sat down on possibly the only empty stool in the  
White Horse and took a deep pull on the pint pushed towards him.  
"Cheers," he said, lifting the glass to his friends. Judging by the empty  
glasses covering the small table, Simon, Tariq, and Tristan had been  
there for some time.

Simon frowned and sat up straight, squaring his shoulders. "So I says  
to the guy, I says mate, more than two shakes is a wank!"

Mulder smiled faintly as his friends broke up laughing. He hadn't  
heard the phrase until the first time he'd shared a public toilet with  
another man - it had been a humiliating moment. And since he was  
American, and funny in the way that only foreigners can be, the story  
had swiftly made the rounds.

"Mulder?" asked Tariq, gathering the empty glasses into a tower.

He nodded, drained his pint and stuck it on the very top of the tower.  
Tariq took a deep breath and lifted the glasses gingerly, carefully  
moved through the crowd towards the bar.

"I thought you were headed to the Ampitheatre tonight?" said Mulder  
during a lull in the music.

Simon shook his head. "Tariq got tickets to see Queen at Wembley."

"Any chance of another ticket?"

"Sorry, mate, you're on your own for the night, unless the lovely  
Phoebe is awaiting with arms open and legs spread."

He made the effort to smile even as his stomach went sour. "No," he  
mumbled. "She's at home this weekend."

"How do you pay for your place, anyway?" asked Tristan, a sneer on  
his lips. "You're American; you must be rich."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," moaned Simon. "Leave it alone, Tris."

"Hey, Mulder, look," Tristan lifted his chin at one of the tables against  
the back wall. "Your boyfriend's here."

Sure enough, Neal was there, watching him, raising his pint in  
greeting. The tips of his Mohawk had been colored like the Brazilian  
flag, green and yellow with a hint of azure, the rest of his hair a very  
careful shade of deepest, darkest black. He was dressed for a night on  
the town, in ripped jeans studded with safety pins, black tee and black leather  
jacket, the scarf around his neck in black and white herringbone.

Mulder nodded back with a half-hearted smile.

"I don't know how you can stand that shirtlifter."

"We just share the same house."

"Yeah, okay, if you say so," Tristan said with a smirk that didn't quite  
reach his eyes.

"Neal's alright. Besides, he pays his share of the rent on time."

"By sucking your dick?"

Mulder toyed with an Innis and Gunn beer mat. "You know, Tris, you  
talk about him so much I'm beginning to wonder just where your  
interest lies."

"He's a fucking queer, Mulder, what else do you need to know? Or are  
you the one with the crush?"

He took a deep breath, released it slowly. He would not lose his  
temper. He would *not*.

Tristan sniggered, casually looked into the bottom of his empty glass.  
"I bet he gives it to you good, right up the ass. I bet you come squealing  
like a girl."

And then Tristan was tumbling off of the back of his stool, crashing  
into the legs of the people behind. Mulder grimaced, shaking his right  
hand, knuckles burning where they had connected with Tristan's jaw.  
His left hand was wet from the glass he'd knocked over as he'd  
rocketed off of his own seat to give the message that he could only take  
so much.

Simon stared at him, open-mouthed with astonishment, before  
leaping up to assist his friend. "Jesus! Tris! Tris! Are you alright?"

Mulder looked around, saw that either no one cared or no one had  
seen apart from the people Tris had fallen into - had been knocked into  
\- and sat back down. He was shaking with rage, adrenalin, disbelief.  
But that fucker deserved it.

"Tris?" asked Simon. "Come on, get up."

The other man groaned and using both hands on the table, slowly,  
carefully pulled himself back onto his stool. He shook his head a few  
times, opened his mouth, moved his jaw from side to side.

"That was uncalled for, from both of you," snapped Simon.

Mulder made the effort. "Sorry."

"Piss off," Tristan glared at both of them, then stood up and wove  
away from the table, wobbling only a little.

Simon shook his head. "Sorry, I don't know what the fuck his problem  
is, lately. He's been a complete and utter arse since Cathy broke up  
with him. "

"Probably because she's dating this guy I went to college with, Tanner.  
All Americans suck, the usual shit," answered Mulder. "Or  
maybe he's in the closet and it's not really the breakup that's  
bothering him. Maybe he wants to jump Neal's bones."

"Yeah, right," huffed Simon incredulously. He wrinkled his nose,  
glanced at Mulder curiously. "It really doesn't bother you? About  
Neal?"

Mulder shrugged. "There's a town near where I live back home,  
Provincetown, on the very tip of Cape Cod. I worked summers there  
from when I was fifteen through college, before I left to come here. You  
have to understand it's a gay mecca. You get so used to it you don't  
even think about it anymore."

Which was mostly true. Well, it was true once he'd gotten over the  
shock of seeing so many men open about sex and sexuality with other  
men. He'd seen his fair share of open air fondling and blow-jobs, had  
been hit on by people he saw often, to the point where he felt free to  
flirt back. Sure, the lesbians were there, too, but it was the men whom  
he found fascinating.

And curiosity was ever his failing.

There had been that one time during his evening shift at the Oyster  
Parade. He'd finished putting the last load of dishes through the  
machine, sweat dripping off of him from the residual high heat of the  
kitchen.

Hal had leaned past the swinging door and said, "Foxy, take  
fifteen."

The back of the restaurant opened into a narrow alley closed in on  
three sides, an oddly angled dogleg leading onto Commercial Street  
and the crowds milling about, doing last minute shopping and  
waiting for the shows to begin. Thankfully a breeze had picked up  
after the stillness of the day. The sea had been like glass on the ferry  
over, only the forward motion of the ship enough to shift the hair off  
his brow.

Luke Malloy, one of the junior cooks and at 19 two years older than  
Mulder, was smoking a cigarette next to a rusty wire baker's rack.  
He'd nodded, waved at the sky with one hand. "Nice night, can almost  
see the stars through the haze."

"Yeah. Good night to be on the beach."

"Beach, right."

Mulder stretched, then leaned against the nearest wall. He wiped his  
face with his tee shirt, even though it was nearly soaked through, and  
when he let it go he noticed Luke staring at him with narrowed  
eyes. "What? Do I stink or something?"

"Something, all right. You really don't have any idea, do you?"

He flat-out lied. "Nope."

Luke took another puff on his nearly spent cigarette, dropped it on the  
pavement, ground it out with his toe. Scratching his neck, he ambled  
over to the wall. "You ever done it with a guy?"

For a second Mulder froze, then his wits gave up and fled altogether.  
"Why, you coming on to me?"

With a smirk and smooth ease, Luke put his hands on the wall on  
either side of Mulder's head. "You want me to?"

The first thing that went through Mulder's mind that he'd never  
realized just how effective a move it was - he was trapped, but only  
by his own will. Luke wasn't threatening - yet. So strange, feeling  
vulnerable against a wall, with no one around to see, no one around to  
rescue him, no one to notice he wasn't doing his job.

No one to see.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he leaned forward and brushed  
his lips against Luke's mouth, tasted bitter smoke and a hint of root  
beer. Luke wound his arms around Mulder then, drew him tight and  
close. Even as he noted it was just like kissing a girl, the hard, bony  
planes of Luke's chest were strange, being bent backwards a novelty,  
the lack of softness just plain bizarre.

"Christ, yeah," muttered Luke, running his hands over Mulder's ass,  
cupping his cock and balls through his cutoffs. "You are so fucking  
gorgeous and you don't even know it. Jesus, what I could do with  
you."

Startled by the aggression, Mulder pushed him away a little bit, but  
Luke rebounded like a boomerang, latched onto his neck like a  
lamprey. It was weird and arousing and all he could think was that if  
Luke were a girl he would be the happiest boy on earth.

A thought that continued after Luke unbuttoned his cutoffs, pushed  
them down and started giving him the best blow job he'd ever had.  
Looking down at his hands fisted in Luke's curly red hair as he  
ministered to his prick he realized that really, when it came to sex, if  
you closed your eyes it didn't matter who was doing what to whom.

He took another sip of beer, twitched one shoulder again. "No, it  
doesn't bother me."

They sat in mutual silence for a few minutes, watched the crowd.  
Simon lit a roll-up of wacky baccy, as usual offered one to Mulder,  
who, further disenchanted with the evening, turned it down. Together  
they watched Tariq gingerly return to the table with their fresh pints.

"Lovely," Tariq said, his upper lip coated with foamy head from his  
stout. He sat down, pushed their pints here and there. "Where's Tris?  
If he doesn't come back I'm having his pint. I worked too hard and long  
for it to go to waste."


	5. Affinity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can see the map [here](http://xfdryad.livejournal.com/11170.html) at the end of this chapter on livejournal.

~5~ AFFINITY ~5~

 

"Here, Tosh, what's with this Mulder fellow?"

The questioner could clearly be heard from around the corner. Mulder  
slowed, pondered whether or not he really wanted to hear the  
answer, then drifted closer to the doorway and stopped anyway,  
keeping his minder back with an outstretched arm. He could imagine  
Lines' moue of disgust, could almost smell the alcohol on his  
breath when he spoke, could just about hear the crackle of cellophane  
being unwrapped from the packet of cigarettes in his tan, waxed cloth  
trench coat, if he were still allowed to smoke in the hallways of  
Seagate Prison.

"Bloody Yank, that's what's with him. Got'im a daddy in the  
Government, got'im a favor called in, got'im being driven everywhere  
when I could be doing important things, like solving crimes."

Mulder's minder, a black prison guard with a strong Birmingham  
accent, shifted from foot to foot. "Sir?"

Smiling sourly to himself, he shook his head, then stepped around the  
corner, taking in Tosh and his mate, an officer of the prison if he  
judged the pips on the shoulder right. He was amused by their  
startled and guilty glances, quickly smoothed over to mostly false  
annoyance as he swept by the two men and continued walking down  
the hall. "Let's go."

"See you next time the missus wants to visit her sister, Tosh."

"Aye, you do that, Wells. We'll have a Chinky and then -"

The voices were halved and dulled as Mulder stalked through a set of  
double doors, went down three flights of stairs and into the basement  
of the prison, where the employee break room was housed. Ignoring  
the sidelong looks of curiosity, he bought a cheese sandwich and a  
packet of salt and vinegar crisps, took his tray over to an empty table  
and sat down to what he just knew was going to be an overpriced and  
tasteless 'meal'. He was hungry, though, and this would have to do  
until he returned home.

An arm holding a small teapot reached over his shoulder. Its owner  
was a middle aged woman in a blue and white striped pinny, one of  
the ones from behind the hot lunch counter "Here we go, love, nice cup  
of tea. You should eat more, you're too skinny. Care for a nice bowl of  
soup with your sarnie? We've got a lovely potato leek, today."

Mulder made the effort to smile graciously, even though he felt his  
personal space more than invaded, for there was no reason for her to  
stand so close to him, not when he was the only one at the table. "No  
thanks, I'm good."

She patted his shoulder, leaned so close he had to fight the urge to  
move to another chair. "You change your mind, you just say the word.  
Ask for Nancy."

He nodded again, the smile dropping off his face as soon as she stepped  
away. Mechanically he ate his sandwich (which proved to be as  
tasteless as he'd originally thought) and crisps, washed away the  
greasiness of the butter and the tang of vinegar and salt with one, two,  
almost three cups of strong and bitter black tea.

God, he'd been a _fool_.

Benjamin Goldberg was a thief and a liar, but mostly a liar. He'd  
obviously done his UFO homework, but his story of being abducted  
on Snowdonia was ludicrous in light of what else he'd told Mulder,  
how his mother was the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter of  
the high priestess of a death cult in Spain, that his father was Aleister  
Crowley's illegitimate son, that his grandmother had been an  
abortionist. Mulder might even have given his abduction story some  
sort of credence, if only the letters from Von Daniken and Carlos  
Casteneda and Shirley McClaine hadn't been so proudly displayed on  
the wall.

No, he'd known the man was nuts the minute he'd walked into his  
cell. Undoubtedly Tosh had known within a few minutes of entering  
Seagate Prison. Probably been laughing his head off ever since,  
wouldn't let it go when they were in the car, oh no, he'd have to push  
it in, make sure Mulder knew exactly what kind of Yankee idiot he'd  
been, as if he really needed to be told. Again.

A folded Daily Mail slapped down on to the table as the man himself,  
Tosh, slid around the end to sit in the chair opposite Mulder's. "We're  
leaving. Got a call from the DCI, I'm on Operation Golden Spike and so  
are you."

Mulder sat up straight. "Me? You're joking!"

"I never joke, old son," Tosh said. He tapped the newspaper on the  
table, nodded his chin at Mulder's half finished cup of tea. "Drink up.  
We're going to a crime scene."

Operation Golden Spike. Mulder couldn't help but contemplate the  
possibilities on the drive back to London. He had overheard Tosh  
talking about it with the other detectives, had glimpsed a room-long  
pinboard covered in pictures and paperwork when walking past the  
operations center. Even so, Tosh's dry recitation of past glories did  
nothing to lessen the roiling in his stomach over the crime scene they  
were now approaching.

While his research focused on abnormal psychology and the tiny  
subset of criminals who claimed abduction by extraterrestrials, in his  
dealing with Tosh he'd found himself becoming ever more curious  
about crime in general, violent crime in particular. Unfortunately  
Tosh only went into detail when he thought he could gross Mulder  
out, so he'd quickly learned to keep his mouth shut and express no  
interest at all. There were times when he had to bite his lip to keep  
from speaking up, from telling Tosh he didn't want to know.

When they parked at the train station he found himself becoming  
more and more apprehensive. Dead bodies were not his milieu and it  
seemed to him that pretty much everyone and anyone in the bullpen  
made it their business to remind him of that fact. With, of course,  
plenty of stories about the state of some of those bodies.

"You've got your pad and pen?" Asked Tosh distractedly, rummaging  
in his pockets for one of the boiled hard sweets he was always eating.

"Yeah," he answered, clutching the objects in both hands. And why  
the hell had he had so much tea at the prison? There was change in his  
pocket, hopefully the right coinage for the toilet in the station.

He had to show his passport to a constable manning the entrance of  
the station as well as the unfortunately named Peter Coffin, the Scenes  
of Crime Officer, before Tosh led him past the enclosed waiting room  
and onto the platform itself. A few PCs combed the scrubby  
underbrush on the other side of the tracks, three even on their knees,  
eyes fixed on the gravel and remnants of old cinder under the iron  
rails. A white tent had been placed above the crime scene, intense  
flashes momentarily brightening the cloth as pictures were taken  
inside.

"Come on then," said Tosh, jumping down onto the tracks.

It was a short walk to the tent, thirty seconds at most, and Mulder  
could hardly believe the audacity of the killer. Such an open space, to  
be seen by anyone on the platform, possibly even from inside the  
station. Passengers on any passing train would clearly see what was  
happening if they were paying attention. But maybe it happened late  
at night after the daily schedule was finished. Maybe this station  
didn't get a lot of traffic.

Tosh opened the flap and motioned him in. Calm reigned. People in  
white paper footie suits took pictures, made notes, took castings of the  
scuffed dirt by the body.

The girl - and the body was of a girl despite the too-short black leather  
mini-skirt and the high heeled white pumps - lay on her back, legs  
pushed up and out, knees splayed wide. Her off-the-shoulders shirt  
had been pushed over her head and behind her back, leaving her  
elbows bound. The plain white bra had been cut in the middle, each  
cup laid to the side, revealing breasts riddled with red crescent bite  
marks. Worst of all was the dark, coagulated blood at the juncture of  
her thighs, the storm blue fingermarks, the...the...whatever the thing  
was sticking out her vagina. And then there was the stink of voided  
bowels, the sharp iron and copper tang of blood, the sweet, cloying  
odor of death above all.

Mulder blinked, looked up and saw two men gazing down at him, one  
on either side of his feet. One was Tosh, who nodded and wandered  
away to look at something else.

"You all right, son?" asked the other. He extended one hand and helped  
Mulder stand. "Happens to us all first time."

What Mulder really wanted was a glass of water or even a cup of  
weak tea. He didn't want to look at the body but he couldn't help  
glancing over again and again, both attracted and repulsed by the  
sight.

"DC Ronnie Brooks. You're Mulder, right? Thought so. Well," Brooks  
said, reaching into his pocket, then handing Mulder a small tin of  
Vicks Vap-o-Rub. "Try this next time, just rub a bit below your  
nose. Takes care of some of the smell for the runny bloaty ones, keeps  
your breakfast down for the early morning ones."

"Thanks."

"Not a problem," Brooks said. He rolled up on his toes a little bit,  
rocked back and forth. "You ready?"

Mulder shook his head even as he turned to re-approach the body.  
"No."

Brooks was right; the menthol rub helped a little. Although he didn't  
faint again, the initial shock lingered and Mulder took frequent trips  
out of the tent for what passed as sunshine for the day. Exactly what  
he was supposed to write in the tablet was a mystery. Nonetheless, he  
scrawled what he had seen, his initial impressions and the questions  
anyone would ask; why, who, how, and when. No matter who had  
done it, they clearly very brave. Mulder thought if he were going to  
murder someone, it sure as hell was going to be away from bright  
lights and the possibility of someone finding him doing the evil deed.

Which then begged the question; what kind of person would find that  
a turn on? He turned around and eyed the station more closely. The  
new CCTV cameras had yet to arrive at this outlier, so there would be  
no help from that quarter. The neighborhood was poor, practically  
derelict. There were plenty of boarded up windows and doors,  
security shutters firmly closed over practically every store front save  
the off-licence, bookies and newsagent-cum-corner store. On their  
way in to Creekmouth they had seen plenty of rubble from slums  
being destroyed. Greater London Council at work again. Mulder  
thought losing the rows and rows of two storey Victorian brick  
houses rather a shame.

Tosh sardonically said, "Moldy, damp-laden places perfect for  
growing criminals. Two up, two down with outside toilets and barely  
enough electricity to power a single light bulb?" He'd snorted, shaking  
his head. "Damned tenants are a better off living in the new tower  
developments. Nice and clean, inside baths and kitchens fully  
equipped, what else could you want? I mean, just because you grew  
up in a poor community with your mum and your dad and your gran,  
your cousins around the corner, your aunts and uncles selling oranges  
and marrows, pigeons and tablet on the street over, that can't stop  
progress and the New Man, can it? Have to have the new malls and  
the motorway exit, ship them all off to other parts of the city where  
they don't know anybody, the kids start getting into trouble and  
behaving badly with no one to keep an eye on them. As bad as the  
tenements were, they were a damned sight better than the towers."

Mulder hoped he kept the surprise off his face at Tosh's diatribe. Last  
thing he expected to come out of the man's mouth, although Tosh had  
surprised him before with his opinions. Some of them were even  
enlightened.

But the end result of the destruction of the old tenements was this, an  
ugly mishmash of neglect and poverty and what few people remained  
desperate to retain what they once had. All of which led to one  
conclusion; the murderer had killed here because he had was sure no  
one was going to notice. No one was going to come to her screams. No  
one was going to twitch aside curtains and call the Filth.

But the dichotomy remained - non-violent rapes (he made a point of  
explaining in his notes that 'non-violent' simply meant the women  
weren't beaten or suffered deliberate physical injury otherwise)  
versus violent, prolonged death. He nodded to himself and turned to a  
blank page, wrote TWO ASSAILANTS, underlining each word twice.  
It was the only explanation that made sense.


	6. Stalwart Men

~6~ STALWART MEN ~6~

 

"Alright lads," Tosh pushed into the room, stopping so quickly Mulder  
almost ran into him. "This is Mr. Mulder. He's here to join in our little  
party, so who wants to tell him what we've got so far?"

Mulder followed Tosh into the long room, taking in not only the lack of  
enthusiasm from the other men in the room, but the overall ambiance  
of cigarette smoke and coffee boiled into submission. What walls could  
be seen amongst the diagrams, color photos, sketches, maps, and  
mimeographed questionnaires were dingy white with a hint of blue,  
like rotten snow in bright light. The gray carpeting was scuffed and  
stained, worn thin in trails from the door and around the desks.

By the looks of them the other men were a dour, untrusting bunch. To  
a man they gave him the once-over before turning back to official police  
business.

"Des," Tosh commanded. "Break it down for our new friend."

A short, baby-faced black man stood up. He walked by the chalk  
board and motioned towards the map of Greater London on the wall,  
which was stuck with green and red push pins in specific locations.  
"In November of last year four women were raped at Shawcross train  
station."

"That we know of," interrupted Tosh, pushing away a stack of papers  
on the nearest desk, resting one hip on its corner.

Des nodded. "That we know of," he repeated. He began touching the  
map as he spoke. "Through the next three months more women were  
attacked at Greenlea, Glen, Marine Cross, Cross, and Elm, but not all of  
them were raped."

"How do you know?" asked Mulder, thinking of home, of Debbie  
Wiltse, of how he still wanted to beat the crap out of...Him.

"They would have told us," said Des dismissively.

Given how the police were portrayed in the news, Mulder was pretty  
sure the opposite was true. Besides, one of his classmates at Marlboro  
had done her Plan in Women's Studies, specifically on the attitude of  
law enforcement towards rape. It had been a shocking and depressing  
read.

"How do you know these attacks are out of the ordinary for the area?"

"Too many of 'em. You'd expect this many in the course of a year, not  
in a few months. The murders begin three stations later, at Glen and  
then Marine Cross, both north and south. Seven in all, one each at  
Glen, Marine Cross North and South, and then three at Bridge End."

He eyed the map again, noting the length of the L that made the train  
line, the slanted slashes of major streets and their attendant stations.  
"Two people, right?" he asked. After a long moment he looked over his  
shoulder, saw that everyone was staring at him. "What?"

"What makes you think there are two of them?" asked Tosh.

Mulder shrugged, pointed towards Shawcross. "Isn't it a big leap to go  
from rape to murder? Were any of the rape victims beaten so severely  
they needed hospitalization? Because if not, that suggests there was  
either a very short, very intense escalation - "

Tosh stood, put his hands on his hips. "Or there are two of the  
bastards."

"I don't like it," A practically skeletal white man with iron-gray hair  
approached Mulder. He reeked of cigarette smoke. "According to the  
victims there was only one man, tall, average build, dark brown or  
black hair, blue or brown eyes."

"Well, that describes half the fucking population of London, Jones,"  
said Tosh jovially. "What do you think we should do next, check all  
the pubs?"

"Then our perpetrator is somewhere in that population."

Facing the wall and unseen by anyone but Mulder, Des pursed his lips  
and rolled his eyes. "At Shawcross the women all say the man had a  
London accent, like Den on EastEnders."

Mulder immediately knew the accent; no one went anywhere or did  
anything until Phoebe watched her show, because Dirty Den was her  
favorite. "Was he trying to be like Den?"

"No, the overall impression was of someone who wanted to be  
friendly, but didn't quite know how to. He spoke slowly, talked about  
the weather and the train schedule. He was sweating and nervous,  
wore a sweatshirt with a hood and a leather jacket over that. The  
jacket was cheap, a knock-off from a trader."

"All this from the victims?"

Des shook his head. "No, Sheila St. Crow, who wasn't raped, but only  
because a couple of blokes interrupted and chased the fellow off."

"Would it be possible for me to the read the transcript of her  
interview?" asked Mulder.

"Everything's recorded on the new audiotapes, but hell, for you we'll  
bring her in," said Tosh.

Mulder surfaced on the fourth day. Daniella Corsica, Angie Smith,  
Chloe Rademacher, Helen Jones. Seven murders, three unknown  
victims. Fourteen rapes that had been reported, who knew how many  
had really occurred.

Clearly the perpetrators - doubt kept him wavering between one and  
two, depending on the evidence at hand - were familiar with the area.  
Or were they? All of the bodies had been found around train stations,  
yet one had had her face covered by an item of clothing, another by a  
flimsy blue and white striped bag of the kind easily given away at  
corner stores, still another a ragged strip of the Sunday Times over her  
eyes, weighed down by stones. And then there were the other four, all  
of whom had had their eyes had been gouged out. A try at keeping  
guilt at bay? At not wanting the victims staring back, accusing? Why  
bother with covering their eyes in the first place?

Did the perpetrators have to be familiar with the locations, however?  
Couldn't anyone with a train timetable and an observant eye find  
dump sites? No, that didn't feel right. It was someone 'local', someone  
who could slip into the alleys and backways without being noticed,  
more importantly, without being disturbed. Someone who  
was...familiar. BritRail employee? Street sweeper? Garbage Collector?  
Postie? Maybe it was someone who took the journey daily? But then  
how would they get elsewhere without a change of clothes? Could  
bring it with them...no, too wide a net to cast. A possibility, but  
unlikely.

Oh, he was over-thinking it.

There just seemed to be such a great dichotomy between the rapes and  
the murders, there had to be two people involved. Working  
backwards, Mulder could see that the rape-murders were incredibly  
violent, far above anything necessary to cause the death of a person.  
The rapes alone, not so much. All the victims had reported forceable  
rape, but all agreed the experience, though horrible, could have been  
so much worse. The man demanded oral sex first in order to get  
aroused, followed by vaginal penetration. Twice anal penetration had  
been attempted, but both women - married for ten and thirty-two  
years, respectively - felt this was due to inexperience rather than  
intent.

At noon Tosh told him to take a break.

"You'll get nowhere if you don't take a breather every now and again,"  
he said, slapping shut the folder Mulder had just opened and putting  
it to one side. "Get out of here for a little while, take a moment with the  
missus if you have one. Or go to the laundrette."

Message received. Taking a cautious sniff down the neck of his shirt, he  
realized that his clothes were beginning to sour. Rather than head to  
the laundrette he decided to go home and pack a bag. He would pay  
for another week at the B&B. He had seen Phoebe exactly once since  
the horrible day at her parents house, just long enough to tell her that  
there would be no trip to Paris at the weekend. She could go by herself  
if she cared. The worst part was that she didn't seem particularly  
bothered by his cancellation. She'd simply said he would be sorry he  
missed it, and that was that.

Back in Oxford he took the time to shower, throw a load of clothes into  
the washer, take a nap.

"Mulder. Hey, Mulder."

A gentle hand on his shoulder shook him. Mulder opened his eyes to  
find Neal crouched next to his head, his multi-colored hair hanging  
loose down his back. In the background he could hear the violins of  
ELO's 'Evil Woman' from the kitchen radio. "Neal."

"That's my name. Nice to see you around the place. Want a cuppa?"

"Yeah, thanks," said Mulder, sitting up and swinging his legs off of the  
couch. He rubbed his face with both hands, yawned. "Sykes around?"

"No. Said he had a date with a model. His new muse, he said. How  
strong do you want it?" asked Neal, heading out into the hallway.

"Black, three sugars," answered Mulder.

"Three?" Neal looked around the door frame. "Oh, someone called and  
said you should stop by your Prof's office as soon as."

Which was when he realized he'd missed their weekly catchup. Great.  
He hauled himself off the couch, out of the house, onto Neal's bike.  
Seonag, Edward's secretary, gave him a less than sympathetic look  
when he bounded into the sitting room.

"Does he have a minute?"

"I'll let him know you're here," she said, still giving him the hairy  
eyeball as she got up from her desk.

Mulder rocked back and forth on his heels, hands clasped behind his  
back.

" _Fox!_ "

So much for the hopeful theory Edward wouldn't mind. Seonag  
smirked as he passed her and he resisted the urge to smack her up the  
backside of her head. She had made it clear that Americans were the  
lowest of the low, and he was the lowest of the Americans she had  
ever had the displeasure to meet. Being Scottish, she felt no  
compunction to be polite about it, either.

"Edward," he started, but Edward gestured sharply with one hand.

"What excuse have you got for me this week? It _can't be_ that you've  
had a long weekend in London, or got into a _fight_ in a bar, can it?  
Because that would be _ridiculous_ for a Doctoral candidate attending  
the greatest University in the world, wouldn't it?"

Mulder took a deep breath, slowly released it. This wasn't going to go  
well. "Sir, that's not, that's, it's not like that."

"I don't care what it is or isn't like, Fox. You do not break  
appointments with me, _ever_. You call, you write, you do whatever  
you have to do in order to let me know you will not be available. My  
time is not your plaything. Now get out of my sight!"

Ashamed of himself, he nodded and backed out of the office, pulling  
the door closed as he went. He stood still for a moment, composing  
himself for Seonag's expression.

" _Seonag!_ "

Thankfully she didn't look him in the eye, so he was spared her  
triumph and her hate. God. The whole week was a disaster. Yet  
maybe, just maybe, there was a way he could redeem himself with  
Edward.

Hours later, Mulder buttoned his jacket, tightened his tie, stared at his  
reflection with a critical eye. He looked...he looked like Mulder in a  
good navy suit, but he needed a haircut. With a heavy sigh he headed  
out to the feast.

The diners were mostly seated by the time he arrived, but Neal and  
Anne had saved him an empty spot.

"Evening, Fox," said Sarah. She smiled shyly at his brief nod.  
"Professor Goodacre was talking about you, earlier."

"Oh. Well, he's not too happy with me."

"Don't be ridiculous!" Gwendolyn piped up across the table and two  
empty places down. She slithered over the chairs to sit next to Sarah.  
"Everyone knows you're his favorite. If he's angry with you it's only  
because you've disappointed him."

"And this is supposed to make me feel better how?" asked Mulder,  
pouring burgundy into a glass. He poured for Neal, too, after his  
house mate pushed his own glass towards Mulder's.

"Well, my point is that you're his favorite, probably always will be."

Mulder grimaced, which seemed to pass for a smile as the  
conversation then turned towards other, juicier stories from the  
grapevine. He fought his way through the cheese and onion tart, the  
roasted chicken and vegetables, the sticky toffee pudding, keeping an  
eye on the high table the whole time.

When the dinner was finally over, his friends lingering over coffee and  
cigarettes, Mulder saw Edward stand and begin to make his way  
towards the foyer. He jumped up, nearly knocking his chair over in  
the process, twisted his way through the crowd of students and  
waitstaff until he reached his mentor's side. "Sir, could I speak to you  
for a moment?"

Putting on his overcoat, Edward pursed his lips in annoyance, but  
jerked his head towards the exit anyway.

Mulder waited until they were clear of other people on the rain slicked  
street before launching into his explanation. "Sir, I wanted to explain  
that I missed my tutorial due to unforeseen circumstances. Namely,  
I've been included in a proper police investigation."

Edward stopped short. The streetlight was just close enough for  
Mulder to see the disbelief on the other man's face. "I know," he said. "It  
was a surprise to me, as well. And I'm sorry, I couldn't turn down the  
opportunity."

"Tell me."

"I...I'm not sure I can, sir," murmured Mulder. He had not been given a  
directive not to speak, but surely that held for everyone, not just the  
press. "The investigation is ongoing."

"Surely you can tell me, boy," Edward said jovially, slapping Mulder  
on the back as if he hadn't been seriously displeased but a moment  
before. "Have you told Sian?"

"No-o."

"Do so at the earliest opportunity. Well! This is more than I ever  
expected. Come and tell me all about it as soon as you can, yes?  
Excellent!"

Walking down the street, it occurred to Mulder that Edward had  
correctly assumed he was part of the investigation, rather than being  
its subject. Either the thought have never presented itself or he had  
complete faith in his students. For himself, he was a little disturbed at  
his mentor's abrupt fallibility. He had heard all the rumors long  
before taking his first class with Edward, how jovial he could be one  
minute, the next slamming books down on his desk, but had not  
believed any of it until he'd started his tutorials with the man. He had  
learned to tread carefully where Edward was concerned.

The next day he returned to London, in the early afternoon ended up  
sitting next to Tosh and feeling like a fraud. All he had wanted was to  
listen, and now here he was in an interview room with the  
aforementioned Sheila St. Crow. He kept wondering when someone  
was going to burst in the door and declare him a sham, a  
carpetbagger. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Up to you, old son," Tosh said. "Be it on your head if she has  
information we can use to catch this killer."

Guilt over the possibilities kept him in the room, even if he was a liar.

Sheila St. Crow proved to be a pasty blonde with a weak chin and  
furtive, pale blue eyes. She wore a cream colored cable-knit sweater and  
pale jeans so tight Mulder could not quite figure out how she go them  
on. She lit one cigarette after another with trembling hands. "I keep  
telling ya, he's never told me nothing. He sees me, goes home to the  
wife and kids."

"Come on, Sheila," encouraged Tosh. "We know there's more to it than  
that. How did you like it, rough, gentle, all tied up?"

What the hell? Confused, Mulder stared at Tosh.

Sheila took a long hard drag on her cigarette, folding one arm against  
herself defensively. "It wasn't like that and I don't have to tell you  
nothing."

"No, you don't," Mulder said before Tosh could bully her into an  
untruth. "But we would appreciate any help you can give us."

She perked up a little bit, gestured at him with her cigarette. "You a  
Yank?"

"I'm American, yes."

"What you doing here, then?"

Tosh saved him from having to answer honestly with a quick, "He's  
working with us."

"Work experience, eh?"

"Something like that," Mulder answered for himself. Which was not  
precisely a lie. "Tell me everything that happened that night in your  
own words. I know it's difficult; going through something like that is  
difficult even for someone expecting it, never mind someone on her  
way home.""

"I take the next to last train from work out to Bridge End, y'know, Elm  
St. Station to Bridge End. You can walk it during the day if you take  
the old tracks, but I don't like it at night, it's creepy. So's I take the  
train which is on the new run. It's never busy that time of night and  
it's the last run, so's I usually sit up by the engine car 'cause that gets  
me to my house all quick like."

Tosh made shifted slightly, his right hand moving under the table,  
flashing...V for victory? No, a two. Two stops? Uh, two passenger cars  
besides the engine? Mulder really had no idea.

"Just what kind of work are you doing these days, Sheila? Back on the  
Game? Mighty slim pickings out that way. Though I suppose they  
can't be too discrimina-"

"DS Lines," interrupted Mulder. "Could I speak to you for a moment?  
Outside?"

Tosh shrugged, leaned towards the DAT recorder. "Interview  
suspended, acting DS Lines and Special Consultant Mulder leaving the  
room at four fifty-nine pm."

Mulder crowded Tosh as the other man closed the interview room  
door. "You have a suspect and you didn't tell me?"

"She's not reliable, never has been, never will be."

Mulder shook his head in disbelief. "Then why are we even doing this?  
Why even give her story a chance?"

Tosh shrugged. "You asked."

"I want you to stay out here," Mulder said. He didn't really have the  
authority to tell Tosh what to do, but asking never hurt. And Chief  
Superintendent Boyle had been very specific about Tosh obeying  
whatever he said. "You can listen outside the door or wherever."

After a moment of staring at each other, Mulder stepped back into the  
smoke choked room, restarting the tape before he sat down. "Sheila,  
tell me more about what happened on the train."

From the movement of her crossed leg, he guessed she had started  
jiggling her foot back and forth. She took a couple of quick puffs on her  
cigarette, glanced at him and away, did it again, which is when he  
began to suspect something what wrong. "Sheila?"

"I weren't attacked on the train," she murmured.

"Excuse me?"

"I said I weren't attacked on the train. Can I - "

The door slammed open, Tosh already talking as he burst  
in, "What do you mean? Sheila! You've got to be kidding me!"

"I was attacked!" she shouted back, the tendons in her neck standing  
out. "But not there! And I know who did it, who did them all!"

"You're nothing but a liar," sneered Tosh. "A liar and a cheat! You  
think Andy's going to take this sitting down, you lying cow? Not  
bloody likely! You'll be lucky to get out of this with a black eye and  
the clothes on your back. Now get out of my sight!"

Before Mulder had a chance to try and calm everyone down Sheila,  
readjusting the leather strap of her purse on her shoulder, rose and  
stormed out of the room, her face crumpling with unshed tears. He  
followed, but was held back by Tosh's heavy hand on his shoulder. He  
shoved the hand away, spun back towards the DC. "What the hell is  
wrong with you?"

"You're wasting your time," sneered Tosh.

"We don't know that until I've talked to her!"

"She's a liar, has been since she was twelve years old and I busted her  
for soliciting - can you believe that? Soliciting at twelve years old!  
Twelve, _twelve!_ I've seen her through borstal, assault charges - she  
took a man's eye out with a beer bottle - accusations of wife-beating  
and d'y'know what? She's lost every single case. Even her own  
children turned against her, so don't you go telling me I don't know  
exactly what she's like. Why Andy's still married to her is beyond my  
ken."

Mulder shook his head in repugnance and walked swiftly down the  
hall in search of Sheila. Damn, the woman was fast. Even so,  
annoyance over took curiosity as not a single Officer or Constable  
tried to stop her. Either they were the laziest Police force in the UK or  
they were so used to her running about they could no longer be  
bothered to stop her. In any way, it was shameful. Finally, he caught  
up with her on the front step leading to the street.

"Stop!" he called, grasping her elbow.

She angrily jerked away, continuing to trot down the stairs. "You can  
just fuck off too, you tosser!"

"Sheila, I'm not one of them," he said. "I'm not even a cop, I want to  
hear your story. Maybe I can help."

She stopped her headlong rush down the sidewalk and looked up at  
him, black streaks of mascara making her look like a raccoon. "Yeah?  
You a journo? What can you do for me? Make that wanker apologize?"

A good question. He managed to stammer, "I can't make an arrest, but  
I can tell DS Lines and the other detectives what I find out. I can urge  
them to look into things more deeply, and tell why," he reached for her  
hand, never actually touching her. "Let me help you."

A tremendous sigh escaped her like air from a freshly pricked balloon.  
"Alright then. There's a Costa Coffee around the corner on Market  
street."

They did not speak until they had ordered and received their coffees,  
sitting by the big picture window overlooking the busy market the  
street was named after. Looked like the usual trade in low-cost goods,  
fruit, vegetables. Through the green striped tent awnings Mulder  
could see that a Halal butcher was directly opposite, with what he  
hoped were very good models of cuts of raw meats hanging in their  
window.

"Carol and me, we've known each other since nursery. Our mums  
were mates when they were little, too, back when they lived in  
Cairncross up North in the Borders. Carol's mum moved down here  
first, then mine followed. Different boroughs, of course, then they met  
by chance waiting in line to see Lulu at the Corn Palace." Sheila smiled  
faintly, took a sip of coffee, added more sugar. "Anyway, Carol'd married  
this bloke, Dennis, fourteen years ago. He seemed like a nice bloke, at  
least that's what I thought, until November, November nineteenth."

"So what happened?" asked Mulder.

"Dennis..." Looking out the window she grimaced, suddenly stood up.  
"I've got to get another packet of fags. Be back in a minute."

One minute turned into ten, long enough for Mulder to devour the  
ham and cheese toastie he'd ordered, dipping each bite into a squeeze  
of vinegary German mustard before chewing and swallowing. It was  
good, he'd have to remember to go to the Costa Coffee in Oxford.

"I was already married to Andy when Carol got married, my Martin  
and Connor were two and my Shelly was on the way. Dennis made a  
pass at me during the reception, apologized when they got back from  
Devon. Didn't think much on that for twenty years, I mean, he'd  
always been touchy-feely, the kind of bloke who'll touch your bum or  
brush up by your tits when he thinks no one's watching."

"Did you tell anyone?"

Sheila snorted. "Tell who? He'd always do it when you were alone,  
always when you'd go to make a pot of tea, or on his way to the  
bathroom. Nothing you could say was deliberate, even though it was.  
I told Carol's mum."

Mulder waited a beat. "And?"

She stubbed her butt out in the ashtray, took a sip of coffee. "Anyway,  
remember that crazy snow we had? When the fog rolled in and froze  
everything?"

There was no way to forget. Phoebe had convinced him to skive off of  
his studies for the weekend, and they had come up to London  
unprepared for freezing weather. Portia had been in Spain so the  
cupboards were bare, and Phoebe had volunteered Mulder to get  
supplies. Her reasoning had been sound; when he returned from the  
store, shivering and lonely, she would be waiting all toasty in bed,  
ready to warm him up. Unfortunately he'd forgotten the cardinal rule  
of life near the sea: fog and low temperatures equaled a thin layer of ice  
coating everything, especially the stone steps from building to  
sidewalk. Which was why he had spent the rest of the day and most  
of the night in the hospital, recovering from the concussion. "So what  
happened?"

"A kind deed. Carol had gone into early labor at work and I said I'd  
work her shift for her. We're always short staffed and subbing is  
downright encouraged. Not legal, but we need the dosh, y'know? I also  
said I'd go over and make sure the kids got ready for school after.  
Anyway, that's why I was at Elm St. waiting for the 4:30 train since I  
been waiting by myself for ten minutes when Dennis shows up. I says  
'Morning, shouldn't you be at work?'

He laughs like it's funny but it isn't really, y'know? So's I go to her  
house, she had four boys before Angela made her appearance and  
Dennis is right there with me all the way from Elm to Marine Cross  
North. I get them up, make their eggs and fried bread, cereal for Cole  
because he doesn't like eggs. After they're off to school I'm washing up  
the dishes when he comes up behind me," She paused to grab another  
cancer stick from the pack, her hands shaking so badly she could  
barely get the top open.

Mulder waited patiently, pityingly taking the lighter from her when  
she couldn't manage to spark her cigarette.

"Pushed me on to the kitchen table, right there where the boys had  
just finished eating. Cuffed me on the head so hard my ears rang for  
two days after.

He shifted in his chair. What had happened to her was uncomfortably  
close to the first time he and Phoebe had had sex. Had fucked, to be  
honest. It was a memory he'd wanted to repeat. Phoebe would be  
excited at the prospect. Now, though, after hearing Sheila's story and  
seeing the body of that girl, the question was, would he?

"They had a house fire in December," she said, grinding her unfinished  
cigarette out in the ashtray. "They say it's arson. I'm glad. Never have  
to see that table again, y'know? Or that kitchen. Hideous tile. They're  
in a new place now, a three bed flat on Coal Road."

"And you think Dennis has done all of the rapes since then?"

"No, I think he's done all the murders."

"The murders. All of them."

She toyed with the twenty pack for a long moment, tossed it aside and  
retrieved her butt from the ashtray again, stuck it in her mouth and  
leaned forward. Mulder did the dubious honors, watched her inhale  
deeply and promised himself he was never going to smoke another  
lungful of tobacco smoke before he died. Not even the waccy baccy  
unless it was American style, simple and unadulterated pot.

"You lot think we don't know? Just because it's not in the papers don't  
mean we don't talk, can't make connections. We're not stupid."

"I don't think - " he began.

Sheila cut him off with a wave of her hand. "I know he did it, him and  
his little friend Jonah. Jonah shits and Dennis knows which hand he  
wipes with. "

Mulder scrabbled for his tablet and pen, hoping he wouldn't distract  
her from her story. The tablet was, he realized, back on the small table  
he had been assigned. He had his pen, and there were white paper  
napkins. He hastily grabbed one and jotted down the name.

"Jonah," she repeated, flicking ash onto the table as she motioned  
towards the napkin. "Jonah Bull. He kept coming over to mine with  
Dennis and Carol. Big man, works the docks. They're always together.  
Carol can't stand him but he's good with her kids. Lives with his  
sister and her man, babysits their twins, Elaine and Mark."

"And Dennis works on the docks with Jonah?"

"Dennis works at the yards. The _switchyards_ ," she emphasized.

The switchyards. Where trains were serviced. From which the next  
station was Elm St, where one body had been found. Picturing the  
map on the wall he understood for the first time how Dennis could fit  
in. Terminus at the switchyard, take the old rail to Bridge End from  
there or the new rail to Elm St. How long would it take to walk it?

Yet there were the Docklands, too, where Jonah Bull worked. Giant  
warehouses where containers of goods shipped from around the  
world were placed, waiting to be taken to various stores. No bodies  
had been found there - because they were easy to hide? Or because no  
crimes had been committed there? Enough people went in and out at  
presumably all hours; shipping didn't stop just because it was  
midnight in England.

No, the bodies were all along the railway, and his initial impressions  
were right, someone who worked there would have the best access to,  
well, everything. They would know the schedules for repairs, any  
changes to the timetables, which was another thing to enquire about  
when he returned to Duthie Park.

"Listen," Sheila said, leaning forward and jabbing at him with her  
stained fingers. Her nails were ragged and bitten to the quick. "That  
bastard raped me on my best mate's kitchen table. He's a scumbag  
and a waste of space."

"I'm so sorry you had to go through that," said Mulder. "It must be  
incredibly difficult to remain friends with Carol."

"You don't know the half of it. My guts churn every time I go over  
there, any time there's a chance Dennis might be in the flat. I hate 'im -  
 _I hate 'im!_ "

Mulder nodded in sympathy, noted and ignored the concerned glances  
from the servers at counter. It was a wonder she still lived in the same  
neighborhood. But her story, horrible though it was, still didn't tell  
him why she thought Dennis was the prime suspect. "I really want to  
thank you for answering my questions today. I can't have been nice to  
remember."

"Remember?" She stared at him incredulously. "It's all I can do to not  
to scream all day from the bloody nightmares."

Thinking of Sarah's papers on the subject, he took a deep breath and  
asked the question most likely to get him slapped. Or worse, if what  
Tosh had said was true. "Was the sex normal penetration?"

Her eyes glazed over. She turned away from him, towards the  
window, as if she could physically deny his presence. When she spoke,  
however, her tone was flat, as if she were reading a new recipe to  
herself. "He tried to, he tried...he weren't hard enough after he fucked  
me, so he used the milk bottle that was still on the table. He shoved it  
up my arse. He said he would kill Carol's kids. He said he would tell  
Carol we'd been having an affair. He said he would tell my Andy our  
children were his," Her voice grew low and hoarse as fat tears rolled  
down her cheek. "Y'see? Y'see why I couldn't tell anyone?"

"Of course," he said, reaching out across the table, as if there were  
something he could do to ease her pain. "You didn't have a choice, of  
course you had to protect your family."

"When I heard about those women, I knew only someone as depraved  
as Dennis could do that sort of thing. He's evil, that one is. Evil."

Mulder nodded even as his hopes died. It wasn't enough. There was no  
physical evidence, although he should probably talk to the forensic  
pathologist or maybe someone at the local hospital about the odds of  
that, first. Ultimately it was her word against Dennis', and even he  
knew that would get the investigation nowhere. He tucked the pen  
and napkins into his jacket pocket, making sure there was no danger  
of them falling out. "Again, I can't thank you enough, Sheila, for taking  
the time to talk to me this afternoon. You've been of immense help."

She looked up, startled as he scooted his chair back and stood up. "Oh.  
Right. Sure. Anything to help get that sodding bastard," she said, also  
standing. "Will I hear anything back? About what happens, I mean?"

"I don't know," he answered, moving over to the door and holding it  
open for her. "This is my first full investigation with the MET."

A sidelong glance at him proved exactly what she thought of that.  
Feeling stupid for ever admitting to such a thing, he smiled wanly.  
"Well, goodbye. Thank you."

He watched her nod and walk in the opposite direction from which  
they had arrived. His first interview with the victim of a crime rather  
than the perpetrator. He wasn't sure how he felt about it. From an  
intellectual, educational standpoint the whole thing had been  
fascinating. But being to face to face with a living human being,  
scarred both physically and mentally, he hadn't been prepared for the  
immediacy of her pain, for the look in her eyes. The whole thing was  
disturbing and he felt responsible for bringing it up again for her. He  
wanted to work on Golden Spike, but that didn't preclude him from  
being an asshole when it came to real people. Some psychologist he  
was.

"Mr. Mulder!"

Broken out of his reverie, Mulder swiftly walked towards Sheila. She  
clutched the leather strap of her purse like a drowning woman to a  
rope.

"I kept them."

"Kept them?"

"The clothes. The clothes I were wearing that night. I don't know why,  
I stashed them behind the broken heater after it happened."

"A dangerous thing to do."

She shrugged one shoulder. "Only place I could think where the kids  
and Andy wouldn't find them."

"Great, we'll take them. Maybe we could do a blood test, see if there's a  
match," If the heat from the boiler hadn't ruined what little blood  
might be left.

"Okay then, ta."

Mulder returned to Duthie Park deep in thought. Sheila's keeping the  
clothes was something out of a movie, and not necessarily a good one,  
either. In a moment of serendipity he spied Colin Bigelow heading  
towards one of the panda's and ran to catch up. "Dr. Bigelow! Sir!  
Excuse me, sir!"

"Yes, what is it?"

"I don't know if you remember me, but Tosh Lines introduced us the  
other day in the canteen, I'm Fox Mulder."

"Oh right, the American! I like to holiday in Florida, gorgeous weather,  
gorgeous," said Bigelow enthusiastically. "Have you ever been?"

"Uh, no, no. I'm strictly a New Englander. I was wondering if I could  
ask you a couple of questions?"

Bigelow put both arms behind his back, leaned on his hands against  
the car. "Go ahead."

"Would it be possible for anal bruising to remain months after something  
too big had been inserted?"

Bigelow made a moue of distaste, shrugged. "Depends on whether  
your victim is dead or alive. If dead, then yes, I would expect there to  
be obvious bruising - assuming death occurred shortly after or during  
the insertion. If living, mm, muscle and skin will repair itself over  
time. On the cellular level there may still be damage. Without a biopsy  
there's no way to tell."

"What can you tell me about blood? Old blood that's been near a heat  
source for many months?"

"We could type it, and that's about all. However, there's a new test in America,  
it's called riflip."

"Riflip?"

Bigelow smiled and shook his head. "R-F-L-P, pronounced rif-flip. A  
way of testing deoxyribonucleic acid, or DNA - "

Mulder nodded. "The building blocks of life, yeah. So you could use  
this riflip to identify people, right?"

"Yes, you could. At least that's what the latest literature says."

"And is there somewhere I could send a blood sample?"

"Oh no, I'm sorry. We don't have the capabilities in this country, at  
least not yet. But, you could probably send your samples to America,  
if you know anyone with a lab."

Damn. "Right. Well, thank you for the information," Mulder said. So  
that was one avenue with a big CLOSED sign across it. He waved at Dr.  
Bigelow and went inside the building, back to the table masquerading  
as his desk.

He was sorting through his notes when Tosh approached, tossed a  
newspaper and a manila folder onto the desk.

"There's a love letter in here for us," he said, turning the paper so  
Mulder could read the encircled notice in the want ads.

He read it once, twice, and again before looking up at Tosh. "Is this  
legitimate?"

Tosh shrugged. "It would appear to be so. Delusions of grandeur,  
obviously."

"Why the paper? Why not send a letter? Or send the newspaper a  
letter? This is just so..." he spread his hands out. "It's just so obvious."

"I think that's the point. So obvious even coppers can find it. Thinks  
he's a bloody clever sod."

Mulder frowned. "Does this make sense to you? I mean, I realize I don't  
have your experience but this stinks."

Tosh nodded slowly, then pursed his lips. He stared at Mulder for a  
long moment, then said, "It's not the first ad we've had. This is, in fact,  
the fifth. And there have been letters. Letters the papers have sent  
directly to us, they're in the folder"

"You're kidding! Why are you telling me this now?"

Mouth twitching as if trying to hold in the words, Tosh glanced  
around the bullpen before speaking. Quietly, "Because I want to catch  
these bastards and I'm willing to try anything, even including you, to  
get them. You might not be a copper but it took you six hours to  
conclude there were two people when it's taken months for the so-  
called professionals to reach the same idea. And they don't even agree  
on it."

Which explained a lot. "You want I should write back?"

Tosh jerked his chin at the paper. "We have been writing, but I want  
you to do whatever you think will work. I don't care how unorthodox  
it is, just get me results."

Once Tosh had left, he reread the message, a ridiculous rhyming taunt  
that any schoolchild could have written with more verve. How to  
answer? The writer was obviously expecting Policeman Plod, so that's  
how he was going to answer. And it was short, which meant it was  
unlikely the writer would not be able to tell he was American.

He hoped.


	7. Karsilama

~7~ KARSILAMA ~7~

 

Stout was not his favorite, though Guinness was tolerable. Bitter was  
too bitter, the lagers refreshing on a hot day, but honestly, what he  
would have preferred was a good whisky on the rocks. Alas, he had no  
money, and thus had to drink whatever anyone bought for him.  
Except for that rotgut called white cider, you pretty much had to be on  
your last legs to ingest that crap.

"Mulder?"

He drained the last third of his third Newcastle Brown and accepted a  
fresh pint of...Tennants?

Neal nodded. "Thought you might want to try it from the tap instead  
of the can."

"No pretty girls from the tap," rasped Mulder. God, he was well and  
truly getting drunk, at four pints a mere lightweight by British  
standards. With Neal, which would cause talk, but fuck it, why the  
hell not. Phoebe clearly didn't give a shit. Simon and the rest could go  
suck eggs. After all, they weren't the ones he'd spilled his guts too,  
were they? They weren't the ones who'd come with him to London,  
dragged him to the pub. Nope, that had all been Neal's idea. He was a  
good friend, a good mate.

Neal eyed him, then glanced towards the band beginning to set up on  
the stage across the room. Mulder could practically feel the burning  
comments Neal wanted to make, so finally he muttered, "G'head, say  
it."

"I never liked that cunt. And I don't care what you say, she is a bitch,  
Mulder! I don't know what the hell you saw in her besides a vagina - "

Mulder stopped listening. The bubbles in his beer made a fascinating  
counterpoint to Neal's rage. He mumbled, putting his head down on  
the table. "You don't know her, Neal. Anyway, you just want to get  
into my pants."

" _Are you fucking kidding me?_ " hissed Neal, poking him hard in the  
thigh with one finger. "Besides, I've already been in your pants, and  
that has nothing to do with her fucking with your head. You know her  
reputation, you know what I've seen, man!"

"I don't believe it. Phoebe would'n do that to me," Mulder awkwardly  
rolled his head to look at his friend. "She wouldn't!"

"Tell me again what she said," demanded Neal, who had obviously  
had an agenda since Phoebe's phone call earlier in the day.

Mulder sighed morosely. "That she was ditching my sorry ass if I  
don't take her for dinner tomorrow night."

"And what kind of woman gives you this runaround after everything  
else?"

"A gold digger?"

"No, Mulder," Very patiently. "A _bitch_. I don't know what kind of hold  
she has over you, in fact, yeah, what kind of hold does she have over  
you? Is it the sex? Coz surely you've got to know you can get that any  
where, right? Women practically throw themselves at you," Neal  
shook his head in disgusted admiration. "It's really not very fair to the  
rest of us."

Gobsmacked, Mulder gave him an incredulous look. "You're gay!"

Neal shrugged. "I'm an equal opportunity kind of bloke."

"Yeah...whatever. And no, it's not the sex. Well, mostly not the sex. I  
don't know, okay! I don't know, we just have this thing..."

"It's a shite thing is what it is."

Nothing much he could say to that. It was never easy, trying to  
explain one's feelings when one didn't even know what they were.  
Phoebe was hardly his first girlfriend, hell, she wasn't even the one  
that was most fucked up.

"There's nothing I can say to make you see the light, is there?" asked  
Neal softly.

Mulder sent him a wan smile. "Nope."

Neal was shaking his head, utter confusion and disbelief plain on his  
face. He pulled Mulder's pint of lager out of his grasp, drank the rest of  
it in one draught before saying, "That's it, no more alcohol for you."

Mulder sat up too quickly, reeled with dizziness and double vision.  
"What the hell?"

"It's water for you from now on. I can't take this bunch of bollocks any  
more."

"Oh come on, it's been a rough day," he knew he was whining, but  
dammit, he was right.

"And it's about to get rougher."

Recognizing the voice, Mulder felt himself slump down. He absolutely  
wanted to crawl into a cave and never come out again. He looked over  
his shoulder at DC Brooks. "How did you know where to find me?"

"We have our ways," Brooks said, looking at the bar with  
thirsty eyes. "Anyway, there's been another one."

"I don't want to go," Mulder moaned. He rubbed his face slowly,  
wondering just what the hell he thought he was doing, wondering of  
maybe this was farther than he was willing, wondering if his father  
had been right all along.

"Your mate's right, son. Go get him some water," Brooks said to Neal  
with a jerk of his head towards the bar. "Two pints!" he called, before  
taking the recently vacated stool. "Now listen. You're going to throw  
that water down your neck and then you're going to come with me to  
our crime scene. You will _not_ throw up, you will _not_ make an ass out  
of yourself, and more importantly, you will _not_ make a mug out of _me_.  
Understand?"

Mulder nodded.

He nodded through both pints of water and the requisite trip to the  
gents to spend his penny, the 2 stops along the way to relieve himself,  
once in an alley, once on the dark side of a nearby tree. He was never  
going to drink so much at once. Never ever. At least he was feeling less  
muddled in the head.

As they approached the crime scene - obvious from a distance by the  
flashing blue lights of the pandas - Brooks broke his silence. "Looks like  
another rape-murder. Ah, here we are."

The darkness of the evening was split by the ultra-bright lights being  
set up by who he presumed were the Forensics people. White plastic  
sheeting was being wound about the entirety of the crime scene to  
keep out the press photographers. Even so, flashbulbs went off in  
Mulder's face, afterimages burned into his retinas and making  
walking over the rough ground difficult. Finally he asked Brooks,  
"Where are we?"

"On the line between Elm St Station and Terminus. The switchyard."

Oh. Mulder went from drunk to sober in a moment. He wished it were  
daytime, so he could see the area - it would just have to wait for the  
morning. Nonetheless, in the residual glare of the lights, he could see  
the embankment on the left, falling away from the tracks towards  
what appeared to be either a very short, scraggly forest or a field of  
brush and bramble. To the right loomed a couple of long, one storey  
buildings that resembled tobacco barns. Rusty rolling stock  
unattached to any engine sat on the tracks, and in the farthest  
distance, just barely visible, was the Terminus station itself. Which  
meant...they had come in by a back road? Maybe it wasn't important.  
Or maybe he was out of it just enough to miss something that could  
break the case wide open. He determined not to drink heavily again  
until it was all over and done.

"Come on, this way," called Brooks, already several strides away,  
holding out a tin of Vicks.

Jogging to catch up, Mulder took the tin and said, "Do we know  
anything else?"

Brooks shoved his hands in his trouser pockets, seemed satisfied with  
something. "We've two bodies this time, one old, one fresh. Bloke  
walking his dog found the old one, WPC called in the other while  
shining her torch along the embankment."

They entered the fenced-in area, ducking under blue and white CRIME  
SCENE tape after a quick nod to the PC guarding the opening. There  
was a heavy stench in the air, diesel fuel, creosote, a faint whiff of the  
sea, and underneath, the skunky smell of death. The two women were  
a couple of yards apart, the nearer one lying on her back, legs spread,  
her face covered by her navy panties. Her shoulder-length straight  
hair, dyed a harsh yellow, had been fanned out around her head like a  
short halo. Given her choice in clothing color; long-sleeved dark red  
shirt, pleated navy skirt - it was a grotesque parody of a Madonna  
icon in real life.

Mulder took a moment to wonder at his apparently now-cast-iron  
stomach. The sight was shocking, but he supposed the previous one  
had taken away his dead body virginity. Perhaps by this time he'd  
just seen so many crime scene photographs that real bodies made less  
impression. At least she looked decent, not that she would be mistaken  
for having dropped to the ground after a heart attack or an aneurysm.

Brooks strolled over to the other body, which lay on its side after  
having been rolled or thrown down the embankment. This one was  
naked, splayed loose limbed like a doll tossed aside by a child. Bruises  
had bloomed on her fair skin, the entirety of her right side dark  
maroon with pooled blood. Livor mortis, Mulder knew after reading  
so many autopsy results, from lying there shortly after her death.

"Mitchell," called Brooks. "Where's the ME?"

The PC at the entrance turned and said, "Donaldson's on his way, sir.  
Got caught up in that accident on Charleston Ave."

"Figures," Brooks muttered. He squatted downwind of the body and  
squinted at her torso. A tech setting up lights turned them on and  
Brooks grimaced, held his hand to his nose. "Ah, Christ. She's been  
opened up. Forensic's'll tell what's been removed, if anything. Shoe  
prints, looks like some teasing with a knife or other sharp implement. I  
can see bite marks on her belly but I don't want to assume she's been  
raped. Jones, I want pictures on my desk as soon as possible."

"Sir."

"I don't need to look, do I?" asked Mulder. A chill passed through him  
and he turned the up the collar of his leather jacket.

Brooks briefly glanced over to the right, then returned his gaze to  
Mulder and said without hesitation, "You get your ass down here  
right now."

Mulder dutifully made his way to the body. There were no words to  
describe the horror of it, of her. He was grateful he remained upright  
and conscious, was even more relieved to feel pity instead of nausea.  
He was also a little disturbed at the vague sense of excitement he felt  
over the new puzzle.

"Get him!" yelled someone.

"Shit!" cried Brooks. He hastily stood and scrambled back up the  
embankment, began running towards one of the long, single storey  
buildings.

Mulder followed more slowly, noted the other coppers converging  
upon a knot of people in the open space between buildings. There was  
shouting, a lot of it, and as he approached the group two PC's forced a  
tall, brown haired white man off the ground to his feet. He was  
disheveled and wide-eyed, dressed in dark clothing and sturdy work  
boots Mulder's father would have called 'shit kickers'. He was shoved  
into the back of the nearest car and it soon drove off, lights flashing.

"Come on," panted Brooks. "Let's go interview our suspect."

On the way back to Duthie Park it belatedly occurred to Mulder that  
Tosh was nowhere to be seen. "What about Tosh?"

Brooks snorted derisively. "Stupid fool broke his damned foot leaving  
the Jolly Captain, gave himself a nasty crack on that thick skull as  
well. He's in hospital for the next couple of days."

"So...does this mean I'm working with you, now?"

"Until Tosh gets back, that you are."

Admittedly, it was 10pm on a Friday night, but even so Duthie Park  
was jumping. Mulder wasn't aware of it was because of the new  
murders or something else. Nonetheless, the energy in the station was  
charged, coppers walking everywhere with determined strides, faces  
stern, no one taking time to chat or joke. It was eerie and he felt out of  
the loop, even though he had been at the scene.


	8. Softly, Softly

~8~ SOFTLY, SOFTLY ~8~

 

"Okay," said Brooks, leafing through the printout PC Beckett had given  
him. "Jonah Richard Norris Bull, thirty-three. Shoplifting when he  
was just nine years old, conviction for animal cruelty at fifteen, formal  
caution about graffiti, also when he was fifteen, formal caution for  
desecration of a gravestone at sixteen, conviction for GBH at 23, spent  
7 months at Her Majesty's pleasure, Category C. Below average  
intelligence but not enough to get him D-tracked. Lives with his sister  
and her husband in Creekmouth on Jesmond Street. That's just off  
Cross South."

"Jonah Bull? He's the man Sheila St. Crow says is pals with her  
number one subject, Dennis Keogh."

"Sheila? Jesus. Next we'll be taking witness statements from Mr.  
Magoo."

"She's convinced he's killed all those women."

Brooks shook his head, a wry twist on his lips. He slowly walked out  
of the room and down the hall towards the interview rooms, Mulder  
following closely behind. "I hate interviewing these poor sods. Never  
know if they're being honest or just agreeing with everything you  
say."

Mulder nodded a greeting to PC DeNevi, who sat next to the door as  
the observer, before taking a seat at the table. Next to him, Brooks  
switched on the tape.

"DS Ronnie Brooks and Special Consultant Fox Mulder entered the  
room at 23:15. PC DeNevi attending. Jonah, have you been cautioned?"

The man nodded.

"For the tape, please," said Brooks, motioning towards the green lights  
of the machine.

"Aye. Told me down the yards."

"Sir?"

Both Mulder and Brooks turned to look at DeNevi.

"Sir, according to pace we need to get an appropriate adult for Mr.  
Bull."

"Ah," Brooks grimaced, flapped one hand at the door. "Go make the  
call, DeNevi. Constable DeNevi has left the room at 23:17 Sorry," he  
murmured softly to Mulder. "The Police and Criminal Evidence Act  
from 1984, PACE. Set up all sorts of newfangled ideas, including the  
use of a trained volunteer for suspects and witnesses who are  
mentally vulnerable. I'm not convinced Jonah, here, qualifies, but in  
this case I'd rather be wrong than right, if you know what I mean."

"A watchdog, to make sure the police don't go too far in their  
questioning," commented Mulder.

"Correct," Brooks lowered his voice further, leaned in to Mulder,  
whispered, "Times have changed, you can't just bung up any old sod  
for a crime, or because they're Irish."

Mulder nodded, even though he was unclear as to the ins and outs of  
PACE. "Is that something you've - "

Brooks made a 'shushing' motion with one hand, gestured towards to  
the DAT machine with the other. Thankfully DeNevi returned, saving  
Mulder from having to make small talk or worse, simply sit in silence.

"Sorry, sir," said DeNevi. His cheeks were bright red. "Custody  
Sergeant's already made the call, says a Mr. Fletcher should be in  
momentarily."

On cue the door opened again and an older gentleman in his sixties  
entered the room. He acknowledged Mulder and Brooks with an  
uplifted chin before swinging around the table and sitting next to  
Jonah. "Hullo, Jonah, my name is Derek Fletcher. I'm here to make sure  
you are treated to the letter of the law."

"Glad you're here, Mr. Fletcher," answered Brooks with a sunny smile  
that Mulder could see did not quite reach his eyes. "Now, for the tape,  
could you both state your names, please.

Fletcher and Bull did so, and then Brooks launched the interview  
proper.

"Jonah - can I call you Jonah? You may call me Ronnie, if you like."

"What do I call him?" with a jerk of the chin towards Mulder.

"You can call him Mulder."

"Can I call him Fox?"

To say he hated the idea was an understatement, but Mulder  
answered in the affirmative anyway. Hopefully it wouldn't come up  
again. Though Brooks had said Jonah had a low IQ, by which Mulder  
had presumed he really meant retarded, Jonah sounded as if he were  
just little slow, instead.

"Jonah, I'd like to ask you what you were doing at the switchyards  
tonight."

Out went Mulder's idea of exactly what 'slow' meant, after watching  
Jonah's face subtly change from open and honest to crafty. He  
determined to keep his own expression as neutral as possible, noted  
Brooks looked the same as a moment earlier.

"Was taking a walk. I like it down the yards at night, it's quiet like."

"You were found by PC Harvey with a bag of womens clothing. Could  
you tell me what you were doing with them?"

"Found 'em."

"Where did you find them?"

"Here and there."

"Here and there?" repeated Brooks doubtfully. "Like on clotheslines?"

Jonah smirked, and Mulder's gut feelings abruptly coalesced and  
suddenly realized that yeah, the man had raped and killed women.  
 _Deliberately._ And here he was, sitting across the table from him,  
listening to him prattle on about clothes. It was surreal.

"Do you know a man named Dennis Keogh?"

Jonah broke into a wide grin. "Dennis? Yeah, he's me best mate! Works  
in the yards, let's me onto the trains when no one's about. He's ace."

"And you also know Sheila St. Crow?"

"Yeah, she's alright. Not the nicest person in the world. Dennis says  
she's above her station."

"What else does Dennis say?"

"Oh, y'know, he likes to talk about this and that."

Brooks smiled a little. "Did Dennis give you the bag of clothes?"

"Naw, I got the bag of clothes m'self. Got the bag, put the clothes in it."

Fletcher shifted in his seat, eyed Mulder and then Brooks quite  
sharply.

"And where did you get the clothes, Jonah."

"Here and there."

"Did you bring the bag with you?" said Brooks.

"Nah, I found it on the embankment. Just a Tesco bag, but it was big  
enough for all her clothes."

"All of whose clothes, Jonah?"

How Brooks managed not to lean forward was a mystery to Mulder.  
He was dying to move in his chair, to lean forward or cross his legs or  
something. However, he wasn't going to move and break the mood of  
the room - of this confession? - without good reason.

Jonah glanced at Fletcher, who immediately straightened up. "I believe  
it's time for Mr. Bull to have his lawyer present."

"Of course, sir," Brooks could have been asking for a plate of chips, his  
tone was so mild. "Jonah, would you like a solicitor? It's your right to  
ask for one if you so wish."

"We're just talking, right?"

"Of course. We're all friends here."

If this were a movie Mulder would take the piss out of the dialogue.  
Surely no one really talked like this.

"Mr. Bull, I strongly suggest you not answer any more questions until  
Mr. Alford is present," urged Fletcher.

Jonah frowned, then smiled widely. "Okay, Mr. Fletcher."

Satisfied, Fletcher pushed back his chair and stood, headed towards  
the door. "No more questions until I return, Sergeant."

"It'll all be on the tape," said Brooks, leaning back in his chair. "If that's  
alright with you, Jonah."

Given that Brooks didn't bother to correct Fletcher's mistake, Mulder  
wondered if the interview was entirely legal. Maybe anybody could  
interview a suspect in Britain? Which maybe meant there was no  
problem with him being in the room, too? Tosh had assured him it  
was fine with Sheila, but Sheila had already been interviewed...or  
perhaps he just shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth.

Their suspect nodded.

"For the benefit of the tape, please."

"I'll be alright, Mr. Fletcher."

Fletcher pursed his lips, but left the interview room anyway.

"Tell me more about Dennis, Jonah. How did you meet?"

"My sister's friends with Carol and Sheila. I met Dennis through them  
when I came down for work."

"So a few years, then."

"Dennis is me best mate. We do everything together. But I'm no grass."

"I'm not asking you to be a grass, I just want to hear more about  
Dennis."

"Dennis says I don't have to say nothing to no one, not even you  
plods."

And so on and so forth. An hour later Mr. Alford arrived, a very short,  
very round little man who had put on too much of a strong cologne  
that made Mulder's eyes water. There was more questioning, a lot of  
'Dennis says' this and 'Dennis says' that and despite his best  
intentions, Mulder found his mind beginning to wander and his  
bladder clamor for attention. Just as he was about to make his  
apologies and leave, Jonah shot to his feet, knocking his chair over.

"You can't make me tell!" he shouted, pointing at Brooks. "I did it! I  
did'em all!"

"Mr. Bull!" said Alford, gripping Jonah's arm tightly and trying to pull  
him down. "Will you sit down, sir! Instantly!"

Heart racing, Mulder was ready to get out of the way should Jonah  
come over the table.

"What did you do?" barked Brooks.

"I didn't mean to hurt them," cried Jonah, falling back into the chair  
DeNevi had uprighted. He put his hands over his eyes. "I just wanted  
to know what it was like! What they were like, y'know, underneath!  
Dennis says I'd never know unless I took what I wanted."

"Mr. Bull, I must advise you to speak no further," said Alford, glaring  
at his client.

Brooks continued without pause. "What else did Dennis say?"

"He said they liked it! He said all women were just gagging for it, all  
the time! He said if I didn't do it that made me a big girl's blouse and  
he'd hate me forever, call me names on the street, make sure everyone  
knew! I had to do it, I had to!"

Brooks sent Mulder a satisfied glance. "Why were you at the  
switchyard tonight?"

Jonah wiped his nose on his sleeve, sniffled a bit more. Alford offered  
him a clean handkerchief, disdained taking it back after Jonah wiped  
his nose with it again. "I was going to cover her up. I don't like them  
looking at me, after. And my mum always said women should be  
decent, so I always covered them up."

"Mr. Bull! Inspector, may I speak to my client in private?"

"Of course. Interview paused at 1:04," Brooks reached across Mulder  
and hit the 'pause' tab on the machine. "We'll be back in five minutes."

In the hallway he could barely contain his glee, dancing a little jig  
around Mulder. "We've got him! Let the bastard try and get out of it,  
solicitor be damned."

"So what happens now?" asked Mulder, unable to believe it was all so  
simple. Surely they had to talk to Dennis, right?

"He spends the night downstairs, we go out for a pint," At Mulder's  
uncomprehending look, he continued. "We've done all we can until  
Forensics comes up with the rest of the evidence. Don't worry, Jonah  
Bull's not going anywhere. Uniform's already out looking for Dennis  
Keogh," he held up one hand. "And I believe that there are two killers,  
but we've only got one in custody right now. If you want to stay for  
Keogh's interview you're more than welcome, but who knows how  
long it's going to take, and to be honest you look like you should get  
some kip."

"In that case, I'd better head home," Mulder said. He turned to leave,  
then a thought occurred. "Am I off the case now, Inspector?"

Brooks rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Inspector, right. From your  
lips to God's ears. As for your status, let's worry about that later."

It was all rather anticlimactic. Not that Mulder had expected  
something out of Hawaii 5-0, but...it all felt a bit of a let down.


	9. Eidolon

~9~ EIDOLON ~9~

 

Mulder left Duthie Park, looked around the empty and dark street,  
decided he was still too wired to sleep. He walked to the taxi rank,  
took a mini cab back to the switchyard. The SOCOs were still at it,  
barely giving him a glance as he walked around under the bright  
lights. The bodies had yet to be removed and he chose not to disturb  
the techs any further with questions about what they were doing and  
why.

He asked for a torch - feeling like a fool for the umpteenth time, asking  
for things using British colloquialisms in his flat American accent -  
wandered around the switchyard. Finding disused train tracks  
leading away from the crime scene, he walked along, playing the  
flashlight on both sides of the track. Hanging precariously by one  
screw on a breeze block wall in the middle of nowhere was an old  
white sign with black lettering. It read "BRIDGE END".

Ah. Mulder glanced back, briefly wondered if he should tell someone  
he was going to Bridge End via the old tracks, then dismissed it. With  
Jonah in jail (for a moment the British spelling popped into his mind  
and he considered whether or not he had read too much period  
literature in college) he could see no real reason to worry. He  
understood why Sheila called it creepy, though, the tracks were a long  
ways from anything.

The stench of river mud and the nearby marshes was on the cool  
breeze, interspersed with diesel fuel, bilge water and the oily odor of  
heavy machinery. Every now and again he turned around, checking  
the distance between the switchyard and himself.

Sheila had been right, it was very eerie in the dark. There were no  
houses visible, the only lights were from the crime scene and the  
docks. They were very bright, a little beacon of home, yet could not  
make a dent in the night and the cold. He could see men the size of ants  
creeping along the deck of one incandescently lit supercargo ship  
painted red and black, saw another ship steadily moving to his left,  
towards the English channel. High tide, then.

As he walked along the tracks, increasingly doubting what the hell he  
was doing out in the damp and the dark, feeling ridiculously isolated  
and stupid for being alone in a strange place with no one to know  
where he was, or what he was doing, or what might happen to him,  
he gradually became aware of footsteps behind him. Someone else's  
feet crunched in the old cinder and coke lying along the tracks.

Although he kept walking, Mulder became hyper alert to the noise  
behind him. He came to a sudden stop, held his breath and listened  
hard. One last crunch. Silence. In the distance a ship's whistle blasted  
a long, deeply mournful note.

If he turned around to see who was there, that person would then  
know for sure he knew he was being followed. But if he continued on,  
then maybe that person would be fooled into thinking he was just a  
dope. On the third hand, forewarned was forearmed.

He spun around, swung his flashlight side to side. There was no one  
there. Probably just an animal of some kind, a fox, maybe. A fish-  
eating fox. Or an extremely large hedgehog.

Yeah, that was it.

Well, now that he'd telegraphed knowing he was being followed,  
what to do. Retrace his steps or continue on? The tracks were  
swinging away fro the comforting lights of the docks, and he knew  
from the maps in the incident room that Bridge End paralleled the  
docks rather than going directly towards them. Somewhere there was  
a spur leading towards the docks, yet damned if he could remember  
exactly where it was. He thought he was a little more than halfway to  
Bridge End, so he decided to walk on.

Bridge End turned out to be an old station transitioning between  
Victorian quaint and the modern '80s, all sharp angles and  
disturbingly bright colors amidst classic, esthetically pleasing  
ironwork painted cream and British racing green. Blinking florescent  
lights shone down onto an empty waiting room.

Mulder hauled himself up onto the concrete platform, tried the door  
leading into the station without success. "Shit," he muttered. Checking  
the station clock, he saw that it was after two in the morning - the  
next train would arrive around five am. Which meant he had another  
walk to Queen Street and hopefully, a taxi rank or a bus station.

At least he now knew the route and could understand the logistics  
better. Three women had been found here at Bridge End, all raped,  
their bodies hideously abused before and after their deaths, unlike the  
previous victims. They were not locals nor had anyone reported  
women matching their descriptions in the whole of London. In that  
case, they were probably from out of town, someplace quiet, maybe  
from up North or the country, where people were more friendly or  
perhaps just less wary.

Mulder approached the lone bench on the platform, peering closely at  
the wooden seat to make sure the dark marks were just graffiti and  
nothing else before sitting down. Leaning back, he folded his arms and  
contemplated what he knew thus far.

So, it was entirely feasible for someone to bring a body - or a live  
person - to the station via the closed track, without anyone noticing.  
Given the lack of housing around Bridge End, indeed, the lack of  
anything, even industrial buildings, he wondered if anyone even came  
here during the day. Why was this station even open? Who came here,  
and when? Were there trails to the docks? Why would anyone take  
those instead of going to Cross Station South, which was much more  
convenient and closer besides?

Then again, those were the wrong questions to ask. Or, actually, the  
right questions, but the wrong time. And Jonah. Mulder just could not  
believe he was capable of all of the murders. He might be a rapist and  
a killer, however Mulder felt he lacked the hatred, the rage to do so  
much post-death harm. Someone who returned to the scene of the  
crime to cover the victim was not going to mutilate them as well. At  
least he didn't think so.

Which led him back to Sheila St. Crow. If she could be convinced to  
testify for the CPS - yet maybe Dennis would say enough in his  
interview to hang himself. An unlikely prospect. And what did old,  
blood-spattered clothing prove? Nothing. Especially as it was all her  
own blood.

"Crap," he said aloud, shaking his head in disgust. It was all theory  
without evidence to back it up. Nonetheless, Mulder felt he should get  
back to Duthie Park and make sure Brooks knew that Sheila was a  
viable witness to an attack on her person. Of course, she had not  
reported her attack to anyone but himself and his lack of a warrant  
card might be a sticking point. All he had to do was assure her Brooks  
would take her statement, hopefully that would be enough.

With a heavy sigh and a dry throat Mulder stood and walked to the  
other end of the platform. At least he had a Macadamed path to tread  
upon. He switched his flashlight back on and headed back towards  
civilization, or what passed for it in this London suburb.

Mulder turned up his collar against the cold, grateful for his leather  
jacket and wishing he had worn warmer socks. The wind was picking  
up, ruffling his hair and bringing the scent of the sea inland. He was  
thinking about how to approach Brooks concerning Sheila St. Crow  
when he found himself face down on the ground, tasting a few grains  
of sand as he inhaled. All was confusion - had he tripped? No, because  
one of his ears was ringing, and movement by his face - a heavy black  
shoe with lug nut soles - made him roll away.

Somehow he managed to keep a hold of the flashlight and he flicked it  
upwards. His attacker reeled back, throwing one forearm across his  
face, blocking the bright light from his eyes. It gave Mulder time to  
stagger dizzily to his feet, nearly falling when he stepped off the  
crumbling edge of the macadam. Wet warmth cascaded down his  
cheek and neck, making his skin itch.

Shaking with adrenalin, he stumbled away from the man and down  
the path. He could feel himself careening to the left, barely able to keep  
upright. Through his good ear he heard the scuff of his attacker's shoe  
and twisted hard, striking out blindly with his arm.

Connection. Mulder clawed what was beneath his fingers and the  
man shrieked in response, a shrill scream that pierced Mulder's ears  
and went directly to his hind-brain. Grasping the man's collar,  
Mulder used it to correct his balance, pulling his attacker towards  
himself at the same time. He used this forward momentum to ram the  
flashlight at the man's head, caught him somewhere on the side of his  
head and neck.

The man grunted and tried to throw Mulder to the ground, but  
Mulder hung on and they ended up sprawled amidst the weeds. He  
kicked, kicked again while blocking the worst of the pummeling  
raining upon his head with his arm. A vicious blow to his ribs had  
him crying out and trying to roll away once more, in the process  
losing the flashlight. Sharp, stinging pain along his hands, cheek and  
nose and the single thought that abruptly bloomed in his mind: _kill or  
be killed._

Everything became clear. His panic abated, he was no longer in pain.  
Through narrowed yet incredibly clear vision he saw the man - pale  
skin, dark eyed, black hair, average build, long scratches on his face  
and teeth gritted together in a hideous rictus of a grin - grab a handful  
of glittering dirt. Smoothly Mulder shoved the man's hand aside (the  
fist came at him in slow motion), let go of his collar and grabbed for  
his throat instead. But instead of throwing the dirt at Mulder, his  
expression changed to one of agony and then he rolled away in the  
opposite direction, clutching his hand to his chest.

For a second Mulder simply sat there, unable to comprehend what  
was happening. Again the calm voice spoke: _run_. He watched the man  
start to get up, and before he realized what he was doing, he fell to one  
side and with all his remaining strength kicked the man squarely in  
the side of his knee. The leg went sideways at the joint and the man  
buckled back to the ground, his screams strangled in his throat as if he  
couldn't decide which was worse, the injured hand or the broken  
knee.

The flashlight flickered and died. Darkness reigned and all was quiet.

Help...he needed to get help. But the startling clarity that had come to  
him during the struggle for survival was failing him now. His head  
was pounding, everything ached, his mouth was full of cotton, he  
could feel cuts on his face and fingers, his chest itched like mad, and  
when he looked down after scratching, he saw his fingers were coated  
with fresh and dried blood. "Oh _shit!_ " he gasped, shocked at the sight.  
"Oh _fuck!_ "

Ignoring the groaning man on the ground, Mulder gradually realized  
he would have to get the help himself. It took getting on to all fours  
before he could get back to his feet, and from there, the decision of  
which direction to take to get back to Creekmouth. Between the blood  
now slowly dripping into his eyes and his utter exhaustion, it took  
another minute for him to move left down the path, where the greater  
profusion of lights appeared to be. Unless that was just double vision.  
Regardless, he was going to end up where someone would eventually  
find him, and that was the important part.

He started walking. Must have been his Id, his hind-brain at work,  
literally making him _Homo Erectus_. He was amazed by the movement  
of his feet, how they simply picked themselves up off of the ground,  
one after the other. Felt like they were walking him, rather than the  
reverse.

He walked. The grasses on either side of the path were more visible  
now, dusky silver green and burnished bronze, buff yellow seed heads  
bobbing in the strong breeze. Dawn was coming on, even though the  
day was only lightening to a shadowed pearl gray with storm clouds  
scudding across the flat sky. There were bottles and cigarette butts  
and needles littering either side of the path and he wondered if there  
were any people out there, too.

Eventually he found himself on a paved road, and then in a  
neighborhood with two rows of old stone cottages. A milk float drove  
by, the driver intent on making his rounds, not even noticing Mulder's  
desperate lurch for attention.

He walked until he could walk no more, stumbled against a post. God,  
he was so tired. He would just close his eyes for a minute, then  
continue on.

"Sir? Please step out of the kiosk."

Mulder winced and looked up, blinked stupidly at the two PCs staring  
down at him with great suspicion. Glancing around, he realized he  
was slumped on the dirty floor of a telephone kiosk, its dome light  
shining down on him like a finger of god on a cloudy day.

"Sir?" The older one repeated, one leather-gloved hand on his baton,  
the other held out to Mulder.


	10. Constant Surprises

~10~ CONSTANT SURPRISES ~10~

 

"Uniform were able to get to you so quick because they were still at  
the scene," Brooks said, hitching his thumbs into the pockets of his  
trousers. "You did quite a number on our number one suspect. Busted  
knee, corneal damage to the right eye, right hand lacerated with  
broken glass."

Propped up by a pillow, Mulder listened to Brooks and tried not to fall  
asleep. He was pretty sure this was the second or maybe third time  
the DC had told him what had happened, but he had only a vague  
memory of the fight, the flight, the utter terror and certainty that he  
was a dead man. Something Brooks said captured his attention.  
"Number one suspect? I thought that was Jonah, and he's in jail,  
right?"

"Yes, yes he is," said Brooks solemnly. "But the man who attacked you  
was Dennis Keogh."

Mulder gaped at Brooks, who nodded, a tiny, barely there smile on his  
lips. "That was Dennis Keogh?"

"Yup. Got him dead to rights. He was back where you said the fight  
happened, on the path to Bridge End. Trying to drag himself away  
when Uniform got there, tried to make like you had attacked him."

Mulder allowed himself a small snort, his sore ribs making him regret  
it immediately.

"I know. We're searching his home right now, have a box of trinkets  
the wife says doesn't belong to her. And, I know you'll be pleased to  
hear that amongst Jonah's possessions was a box of videotapes shoved  
under his bed," Brooks frowned, nose wrinkled as if he were smelling  
something bad. "We took a look at them while you were being treated  
here in hospital," he shook his head. "They're bad, Mulder, bad as  
anything I've ever seen. Worse, even. Made movies. As they were  
happening. What's clear is that Dennis is a sick, twisted son of a bitch.  
The things he did to those poor girls..."

"So no one's going to be bothered with his statement that I beat him  
up?"

"No. Sympathy's all on your side," Brooks dropped the lighthearted  
attitude. "This time."

"There won't be a next time," Mulder answered, sliding down further  
under the covers. God, he was tired. Exhausted. What he really  
wanted was another dose of painkillers and the overhead florescent  
switched off. The damned thing buzzed and ticked and even though he  
felt fine, the ward sisters refused to let him out of the bed. Concussion,  
they said, better for him to rest and sit still. He closed his eyes for just  
a second too long, because when he opened them again Brooks was  
opening the door. "Ronnie!"

Brooks swung back, a small, pleased smile on his lips. "Yes, son?"

"Thank you. I could never have done any of this without your help. I  
don't know if I would even be here without you."

Brooks took in a breath, let it out in a quick huff. "Chief Super would  
have had my head if anything had happened to you out there," He  
pointed one finger at Mulder. "Don't do it again."

"I think I've had my fill of real crime. It's the academic life for me."

"Mm," Brooks hummed. "Well, I wouldn't rule it out altogether. You've  
got an aptitude for this sort of thing. Which reminds me, we found  
your letter."

"Letter?"

"Yeah, the one Tosh asked you to write. For the want ads?"

"Oh, right. But...I'd only just written it," muttered Mulder. "I'd left it on  
Tosh's desk with a note."

"Exactly. Turns out Dennis Keogh had a 'bit on the side' who just  
happens to work as a secretary for the Chief Super. She'd come down  
to get Tosh's official papers to act as a DS while Bristol and Conway  
are out, saw the letter and took it to show Dennis. Heads will _roll_ ," He  
shoved his sleeve up, glanced at his watch. "Christ, time for me to get  
some sleep before the next round of questioning begins. Speaking of  
which, we were unable to contact your parents. Is there another  
family member we can call?"

Mulder tried to recall who was still alive. Aunt Beatrice...no. No, she  
would not be amenable to a call from him. Maybe Aunt Saskia? The  
truth was that after Samantha had disappeared they had been  
ostracized - *he* had been ostracized, his parents the same by  
association. And not just by family. He shook his head. "No. I'll be fine,  
thank you."

Brooks nodded, staring at him with far too much understanding in his  
eyes. "Well. I'd best be getting on. PC Havers will be around tomorrow  
to take your full statement."

"Okay," he mumbled, his eyelids growing heavier as the less than soft  
hospital bed finally claimed him.

Thirty minutes later he was wide-awake, submitting to the  
observation by the nurses with a bad attitude he tried not to show. He  
was hungry but dinner time was long over. He felt at sea. Everything  
seemed like a dream. An terribly exciting dream.

The rest of the night passes slowly. He was so tired, yet found that  
now that he wanted to, he just could not sleep. He dozed, woke up  
when the nurses came in, spoke to a doctor about how he felt,  
requested more painkillers. There was an x-ray, which proved what  
he said exactly - he was sore and bruised, but there were no broken  
ribs. Finally making the case about someone else needing his bed,  
never mind the private room, he escaped the hospital and returned to  
his bed and breakfast.

A nap was what he needed, he decided, though when he woke up 14  
hours later he realized what he really needed to do was go back to  
Oxford. Go back to his proper life. First, though, a visit to Duthie Park.

Everything at Duthie Park was the same except for himself. He felt like  
he had lost his virginity again - his entire world view had been tilted  
on its axis. He found it hard to believe that the first time he had  
walked into the building - a paeon to bad lighting (institutional,  
efficient) and even worse color (tan, beige, off-white, dingy) - had only  
been what, three earlier. There were smiles and nods from people he  
had seen in the hallways, and even though he still had to wear a  
VISITOR badge, he was otherwise waved through the double doors  
and up the stairs without an escort.

Pushing through the door to the incident room, Mulder was surprised  
to hear a "Wahey!", followed by a ragged chorus of the same, plus a  
couple of "Fox caught the hen!" shout outs. His face grew hot, but he  
silently basked in the pleasure of it all the same. This was ever so  
much better than scoring at any game. Well, it certainly had more  
meaning.

"How does it feel to be a hero?" called Gary, pouring hot water into the  
atrocious instant coffee he loved.

Mulder shook his head. "I'm no hero. I didn't even know anyone was  
out there."

"Well, for the love of god, man, don't let the girls know, gives the rest  
of us a bad reputation," said Des.

"You already have a bad reputation," crowed O'Connor from the back  
of the room.

Everyone broke into laughter as Des pointed at O'Connor and shook  
his finger. "Oi!"

"Alright you lot," Brooks said over the hubbub. "enough fun and  
games. Back to work."

Mulder smiled, wandered over to his desk. He leafed through a couple  
of the manilla folders, wondered if he should do something with them  
or just leave them alone. Here it was, everything he had done on this  
case. Much less than what he had already written for his doctorate,  
yet far more satisfying. The concrete result, he supposed, rather than  
the meanderings of ill minds. And they had all been ill, regardless of  
what they said (some would say a person would *have* to be  
mentally ill to believe in alien abductions)(but he wasn't, shock over  
Samantha be damned). Some day, though, some Where, he would find  
them, he would find her, he would be able to prove what had  
happened definitively once and for all.

"Wondering what happens now?"

Mulder sighed. "Yeah, a little."

Brooks swung an empty white cardboard box he had been hiding  
behind his back onto the desk. He tapped it lightly and said, "It all goes  
in here after you type up your notes," At Mulder's stricken look he  
grinned. "Paperwork, the unsung hell of detection. Now you just go sit  
right there, and when you're done I'll have Havers take your  
statement. Then we can go for a pint."

Resigned to his fate, Mulder slumped onto the chair behind the desk  
and searched for a ream of clean white paper.

Hours later he found himself in the local, everyone around him drunk  
or well on their way. Brooks was insensate in one of the booths, head  
on one outstretched arm on the table, empty pint glasses covering the  
rest of it, even spilling onto the next table. It was a depressing sight.  
Mulder was overly familiar in the ways of hiding alcohol and though  
Brooks was pretty good at not appearing drunk during the day, more  
than once Mulder had smelled liquor on his breath, had wrinkled his  
nose at the odor of spirits bleeding through his skin from a bender.  
Man was going kill himself with drink. Personally, Mulder thought  
there were much faster ways of committing suicide.

He accepted more congratulations, pats on the back, pints of beer and  
the odd shot of 20 year old Macallan. Everyone was pleased with  
themselves, darts in that corner, a rousing game of snooker over in the  
other, all witnessed through the drifting cigarette smoke, while  
shouted jokes and laughter could be heard in between Status Quo and  
Thin Lizzy and Dire Straits. He wanted to throw himself  
wholeheartedly into the celebration. In fact he appeared to be the only  
one who recognized that he had merely been very, very, very lucky.  
Right place, right time.

Of course he might have died, instead. And every time that thought  
occurred he flushed with heat, broke out into a sweat, his heart racing.  
Yet that hadn't happened, he was still here, in the present, amongst  
people he would not call 'friends', could not call 'colleagues'.  
'Acquaintances' was too cold, but he couldn't think of another word  
that would do. They had a shared experience now and he just could  
not think of what word could make how he felt understood.

It was late when Mulder slipped out of the pub and into the cool,  
moist air of night-time London. He was tired and aching and his  
uncomfortable bed was calling his name with promises of sleep.  
Walking down the poorly lit street, he was reminded of the path to  
Bridge End before he ruthlessly shoved the memory away. He made a  
mental note to consult that hypnotist, that Dr. Werber Mrs. O'Neill  
was always yakking on about to his mother. Maybe he could  
hypnotize Mulder's new fear of the dark away.

Back at the B&B Mulder was surprised to find an envelope under his  
feet when he stepped into his room. He closed the door, picked up the  
envelope and sat on the bed before opening it with his finger, risking a  
paper cut in the process. There was no stamp - and who the hell knew  
where he was living anyway - so it had been delivered by hand.  
Weird. It read:

 

-Fox,

I hope you are well. Please call at my  
office at your earliest convenience.

-your loving Father

 

Mulder closed his eyes and pinched the base of his nose. Was it too  
much to ask that he leave this fucking city, complete his fucking  
studies, and fuck off back home? He stood up and took a deep breath,  
and then another, and another. In a minute he would prepare for bed,  
then call the Embassy to meet with his father. Then he was going to  
come back, pack his things, and return to Oxford. There he would meet  
with Edward and Sian, finish his monograph on crime and the occult.  
Whether or not he would continue on with Tosh and his study of  
abductees remained to be seen - he had to admit his interest had  
waned. Maybe it would return...and even if it not, he would still finish  
and graduate.

The door swung open abruptly and Neal bounded into the room.  
"Where the fuck have you been?" he demanded. Then, taking in  
Mulder's stiffness and bandages as he was removing his jacket,  
"Christ, what happened? Are you alright?"

Mulder allowed himself to be led to the bed and forced down. The  
room swam a bit but soon stopped moving. Closing his eyes, he lay  
back and allowed Neil to fuss over him with a blanket.

"Are you going to tell me what happened or do I have to guess?" asked  
Neal, sitting on the edge of the bed and unlacing Mulder's sneakers.

"Went to a crime scene, interviewed a suspect, walked on some  
railroad tracks and then got jumped by another suspect."

"You do like to live dangerously," murmured Neal, putting Mulder's  
shoes on the floor next to the side table, where they would be easy to  
put on. "And I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but both of your  
profs want to see you tomorrow afternoon. At 3, precisely. They told  
me to tell you to make sure you were on the noon train no matter  
what."

Mulder groaned and drew the back of his hand across his eyes. Really,  
could the day get any worse?

"And I was wondering if I could stay here for a few days?"

"Sure. Fine. Whatever," answered Mulder. "Room's paid up through  
Monday."

"Brilliant! Er, could I borrow a few quid?"


	11. Everyday I Die

~11~ EVERYDAY I DIE ~11~

 

In the morning, after crawling painfully over a snoring Neal, Mulder  
performed his ablutions in the common bathroom and changed into  
clean clothing. He made a brief stop at the King's Cafe for tea and an  
Aberdeen buttery topped with jam before once again making the  
journey to the American Embassy. Although the day was somewhat  
warmer - a clear sign that spring was on its way - the weather was  
otherwise precisely the same; right dreich, to quote Seonag.

There were no protests in Grosvenor Square this time around, and  
when he entered the Embassy and showed his passport, he was  
immediately led behind the front desk and down a short hallway to a  
bank of elevators. He followed his minder inside, but instead of going  
up, the man pressed S3 and they went down instead. This made  
Mulder a little nervous, because in every thriller he'd ever seen, the  
sub-basement was the bad place.

They went down featureless hallways with numberless doors, around  
corners and down two more sets of stairs until Mulder wondered if  
they were even under the Embassy any more. Finally they stopped  
and Mulder was directed into a small office with a living, breathing  
secretary. He was grateful for her smile of welcome, less so when left  
him alone in the inner conference room. It had a cool overhead  
lighting, a dark wooden oval table, 10 chairs, a vcr and tv in one  
corner. Sound deadening brown carpet was plush underfoot. An  
attempt to add life had been made with the addition of a vase of silk  
Birds of Paradise, and if there had been a window in the room it might  
have worked. Unfortunately the effect was to only make the room that  
much darker and more corporate.

He was silently debating whether or not to take a seat when the door  
behind opened.

A slender man with thinning white hair, wearing a pale grey suit and  
shining black wingtips entered the room. "Ah, Mr. Mulder! Lachlan  
MacNeill, pleased to meet you," he said in a soft Scottish burr. "Please,  
take a chair."

Mulder shook the offered hand and then sat down.

MacNeill turned and motioned to the three men following. "This is Mr.  
Smith, Mr. Jones, and Assistant Director Blaise Guillory."

Smith and Jones were definitely different from the Smith and Jones  
who had been in his father's office. The two men arranged themselves  
across the table from Mulder. Like MacNeill they were bland,  
ordinary, average. Unless you looked them directly in the eye and saw  
the deadness of their expressions, like Great White sharkes.

Guillory sat between Mulder and MacNeill, who had taken the chair  
at the head of the table. He was a little too close, and Mulder fought to  
not shove his chair backward a little.

"So where's my father?" he asked, concern overriding other questions,  
like who were these people, and what were they doing in a sub-  
basement of the American Embassy, and when could he leave, because  
he had more important things to do?

"Your father, yes," murmured MacNeill, fingers steepled beneath his  
chin. "No, no, your father is fine. I do apologize for the ruse."

"Ruse?" Mulder echoed. Just what the hell was going on here? "I want  
to see my father, and I want to see him now!" He sounded petulant but  
he didn't care. "And just who the hell are you people, anyway?"

"We are...interested parties. My personal position is of no importance."

Smith shifted in his chair. "We've been watching you, Mr. Mulder."

His accent was common, not quite Cockney, but not exactly Middle  
England, either, and no where near Phoebe's posh upper crust. Not for  
the first time did Mulder wish he could place English accents better  
than 'Birmingham' or 'Liverpool' or 'Newcastle'. "What do you mean,  
'watching me'?"

"Let's stop beating around the bush," said Guillory suddenly, his  
smooth American tones soothing Mulder's anger. "Mr. Mulder - Fox - I  
work for the Federal Bureau of Investigation."

Mulder frowned. "The FBI?"

"The one and only," said Guillory with a smile.

"So what do you want with me?" he asked, thinking back to the last  
time he had smoked a spliff with Simon and Tariq. Then he relaxed.  
Neither the FBI nor any other American law enforcement agency had  
jurisdiction in England for small drug crimes - it was ridiculous.  
Unfathomable. A waste of money if nothing else.

"We've been hearing good things about your work at Oxford. The last  
case with Her Majesty's police force was exceptional."

"Oh," said Mulder faintly. "The FBI has time for that sort of thing?"

Guillory shrugged one shoulder nonchalantly. "We have our ways.  
My point is that we are intrigued and would like to offer you a  
situation."

"Excuse me?"

"Your performance was exemplary for someone with little experience  
of law enforcement, you sister's case notwithstanding."

Of course. Because being accused all but directly of doing something  
horrible to his sister made for 'experience' of the law. Not a good  
experience, mind.

"Given your interest in crime and criminals, plus what you did with  
this current case," Guillory smiled, his teeth showing. "I'd like to offer  
you a place within the Bureau."

Mulder froze, not quite getting what the man had just said. "What?"

"I'd like you to come work with for us after you graduate. The Bureau  
can always use men of intelligence. We've been following your  
progress some time and you are, quite frankly, gifted."

"O-oh," said Mulder. "I don't really know what to say."

Guillory clapped one heavy hand on his shoulder, fished in his jacket  
with the other, brought out a white card with a blue seal on one side.  
He put the card on the table in front of Mulder. "Think it over. You can  
always call the Embassy or the British field office if you would like to  
speak to me. After training you could be placed any where in the  
world, even back here if you so wanted."

Before Mulder had a chance to do more than open his mouth to turn  
down the offer, everyone looked behind him. Jones stood, one arm  
reaching into his jacket but not withdrawing whatever it was he had  
inside.

" _Fox._ "

And then Mulder was turning in his chair to stare at his father as  
well. His father, who was well and truly enraged, though any  
stranger looking at him would never be able to tell. His father,  
wearing a brown suit, tan Oxford shirt, and a tie with a block print.  
Mulder could practically smell the fatigue rolling off of him, could see  
in the redness of his eyes how tired he was. The low voice was  
controlled, but the tone, the tone was the warning. Mulder palmed the  
card and rose, nodded at Guillory and MacNeill, pointedly ignoring  
Smith and Jones. Nobody threatened his father, not while he what in  
the room.

He stepped past his father, hesitated, quietly said into his ear, "Dad."

After a moment continuing the stare down, his father turned and  
walked out of the secretary's office. Mulder followed him down the  
hallways and up the stairs, back into the elevator. They stopped on  
the ground floor and left the building.

Once outside, they ignored the concrete pathways to stride swiftly  
across the lawn.

"Are you going to tell me what you were doing down there?"

Mulder had wanted to explain, but his father had waved him off with  
a shake of his head. And now, given that he wanted to know, Mulder  
was perversely no longer inclined to tell him. When his father looked  
at him, Mulder glanced away. 20% off at Halim's Oriental Rugs, great.

"Dammit, Fox! Those men...they're dangerous. They're not to be  
trusted."

"What do you want me to say?" he spat, ignoring the disapproving  
looks and wide berth passersby gave them. "I got a note I thought was  
from you, but of course I should have known better. They want me,  
Dad, they want to recruit me for the FBI."

His father stopped short, his eyes wide. "The Bureau? They want you?"

"Is that so beyond the realm of possibility?"

His father frowned, then contemplated Mulder for a long moment,  
then nodded slowly. "Yes...I see what they're doing. They're trying to  
suck you in, the same way I was when I was of a similar age."

Mulder rolled his eyes, shook his head. "They? This isn't some kind of  
conspiracy to get you, Dad. They liked my work, even my  
monograph."

"Can't you see what they're doing?" Frustration boiled out of his  
father, and he grabbed Mulder's arm, forcing him to stop walking.  
" _Think_ , boy! Think! How did they get this information? Your  
dissertation isn't yet complete - how have they gotten a hold of it? On  
whose authority did they read it?"

There was no way he was going to admit to his father that he didn't  
know. "Sian or Edward probably, and it's not that big a deal."

"Yes, yes it is. You're at Oxford, not some backwater college in  
Arkansas. Everything is important," His father took a deep breath.  
"Have you decided what you're going to do?"

Mulder shoved his hands in his pockets, looked around the Square as if  
the answers were to be found in a random storefront. "I, I have to  
think about it. But Dad, it could be the answer to everything! If I could  
find Sama-"

"Stop it! Just stop it!" His father rasped, almost stomping into the  
ground at the same time. "She's gone, Fox, and she isn't coming back.  
Not ever," He covered his eyes for a moment before shaking his head  
again. "I've got to get back to work, try and fix this," He started  
heading back towards the Embassy before calling over his shoulder,  
"And you, you need to move on with your life."

"But what if I can't?" whispered Mulder to his father's retreating back.

He made one stop for a cup of tea at a fancy cafe for tourists, then  
headed back to the bed and breakfast to collect his bag. Thankfully  
Neal was gone, otherwise he might have had to explain his foul  
temper.

A stroke of luck that continued when no one sat next to him on the  
train journey to Oxford. He debated dropping his bag off at the house,  
but then decided that being on time for his meeting with Edward was  
far more important. Especially given what had happened the last  
time. Not an encounter he cared to repeat.

"Quite the adventure, then," was Edwards comment as Mulder took  
the cream chintz wingback chair next to his mentor.

"Now I've heard a few things through the grapevine, but I want you to  
start from the very moment you left this office those weeks ago."

Mulder inhaled, slowly released his breath, trying to think of the best  
place to begin. With the body? At Seagate? Or should he actually start  
with the whole point of his thesis? "I hope your afternoon is clear."

Edward waved one hand at him. "As we see it."

Mulder had only reached the part where Tosh had told him they were  
joining Operation Golden Spike when Sian entered the room. She was  
uncharacteristically red-cheeked and flustered. For a brief moment he  
wondered if he should ask if she was alright, but she was not the  
friendliest of professors.

"Sian, are you alright?" asked Edward.

She gave them both a nervous smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.  
"Let's begin, shall we?"

"I'd just finished interviewing Benjamin Goldberg at Seagate when I  
was told that I was on Operation Golden Spike."

"Ha!" Edward cackled. "Someone's a trainspotter."

It took a Mulder a second to understand the reference. Golden Spike, of  
course. American railway history aside, he started again. He was not  
able to get through the whole thing within the hour scheduled.  
Appointments were canceled, tea was asked for, Garibaldi biscuits  
and Eccles cakes for Sian's sweet tooth. As it was England, and Oxford,  
and both his mentors were highly respected, there was a separate  
tray with cheese scones and delicate little crustless wholemeal  
sandwiches filled with salmon and cucumber, cheese and pickle, and  
marmite on (cold) toast, which Edward tucked into with gusto.  
Mulder tried not to make a face at Edward's hmm of pleasure as he  
ate. They said you either loved or hated the stuff and he fell firmly into  
the 'hate' camp. Phoebe had tried to feed it to him once and he'd  
accused her of trying to poison him, which she thought was hilarious.

'"If I'd tried to poison you, I'd have used something you couldn't  
taste."' she had said, but he wasn't sure he believed her. She was  
definitely the type to enjoy someone's suffering.

He helped himself to a fresh cup of tea, he added milk and one sugar,  
took another smoked salmon. Finally he decided to answer Sian's  
question as quickly and bluntly as possible, even though he was a  
little ashamed of himself. "Yes."

She finished chewing her Garibaldi, stirred 3 teaspoons of sugar into  
her tea. "So it didn't disgust you?"

"No, it did," he said slowly, thinking out loud, remembering that first  
body. "But the puzzle of it was intriguing."

"And maybe you could help someone else's family," said Edward.

Mulder twitched one shoulder. Obviously.

"Would you want to do it again?" asked Sian. She motioned towards  
Mulder with her teacup. "Work on a criminal case?"

Ah, yes, that. "Funny you should mention that, because I've had an  
offer to do exactly that after I graduate."

Edward reared back in his seat. "From the MET?"

"No...from the FBI."

Silence greeted this remark, and then Edward clapped his hands  
together. "That's fantastic news! Congratulations, Fox!"

"Thanks," he said, taken aback by Edward's enthusiasm. "Sian?"

She nodded slowly. "It's an opportunity that doesn't come around  
often. Is that what you want to do?"

"I...I don't know. I think..." Mulder surged up from the chair, took the  
few steps to the window overlooking the quad. He rubbed his chin,  
watched a few fellow students laughing as they walked on the brick  
paving below. "When I was younger, after Samantha had gone, I told  
myself that if I joined the Army I could fight all the bad guys I  
wanted," He looked back at his mentors, smiled wryly at their startled  
looks.

"Two of my granduncles died in the Great War, and my dad fought in  
Korea and Vietnam. Somewhere along the way I lost my interest in  
the Military, decided academia played more to my strengths."

"And you could do research into Samantha's disappearance," said  
Sian.

Mulder grimaced, turned around completely and leaned on the stone  
window sill. "I never thought about joining Law Enforcement, though  
in hindsight it seems like a pretty obvious career choice."

"Fox," Sian began before stopping. She frowned, licked her lips. "Fox,  
you know that Rhodri has been to Area 51 multiple times. He  
has...heard things. Things you need to know. Things...about your  
father."

Edward snorted. "That sounds like a threat."

Sian looked at him briefly, returned her gaze to Mulder. "Knowledge is  
power, Fox. Now you need to decide what you want to know, because  
there is no going back. Everything you do from now on has  
consequences, ripples from here to America and beyond."

"Sian, what are you talking about?" asked Edward querulously.

"You...you want me to take the position at the FBI," Mulder stated.  
"Why?"

She glanced at her hands, then, twisting her wedding ring around her  
finger. "I have my reasons. You don't need to know them."

"What the hell is going on here!" Edward thundered, slamming one  
hand against the armrest of his chair. "I've known you for twenty  
years, Sian, and I don't understand any of this. Do you, Fox?"

No, not really. "I haven't yet decided what to do."

Sian smiled gently, sadly, at this. "You'll take to the FBI, Fox. It suits  
you. And given what you've told us this afternoon, I think you're  
suited to it," She stood up, headed towards the door. "Excuse me, I  
have to make a call."

Edward stared at her, then at Mulder. "What just happened?"

Mulder shook his head. He wanted to know just what she had heard  
about his father, because she seemed awfully twitchy.

He walked home from the college, unsettled by the sudden end of the  
meeting. Edward had been as well, though Mulder suspected that was  
rather more due to curiosity about Sian's enigmatic proclamations as  
opposed to what she had actually said.

The idea that there was something mysterious about his father was  
hardly new, Mulder had seen many strange men come to the house  
before the divorce, asking to speak to his father behind closed doors.  
Occasionally his father had refused, had simply walked them back out  
to their cars, speaking in a voice that didn't carry but was clearly  
emphatic in nature, and not in a good way. Bill Mulder had begun  
working for the State Department halfway through the war, though  
he had never mentioned why. And Mulder had never needed to know.

None of which answered the question of what Mulder was going to do  
upon graduation. Phoebe was trying to convince him to travel to Asia  
with her, but the appeal was lacking, especially after, after what she  
had told him. The advantages of condoms were multiple, but carrying  
a small suitcases worth of them around the world? No thank you.

The thing was, the more thought he gave to it, the more he liked the  
idea of it. The FBI. The Federal Bureau of Investigation. The power.  
Such a useful tool to find answers, not least for himself.


	12. Listen Zara

~12~ LISTEN ZARA ~12~

 

Under typically lowering English skies a heavy downpour began,  
forcing Mulder to catch a bus home. He ran down the street from the  
stop, cursing under his breath as he struggled to get the key in the  
front door lock. Benny was a gods-be-damned awful landlord, but he  
was also a cheap landlord, which meant Mulder's final year at Oxford  
wasn't one where he also had to work part-time.

Stepping inside, he shed his dripping jacket and hung it on the coat  
rack. He sniffed hopefully. Nothing apart from the usual lingering  
odor of spice from the incense sticks Neal was constantly burning.  
Which meant he was going to have to cook his own dinner because  
Neal was out. And Neal was an amazing cook. Probably because he  
was studying Chemistry as well as Physics.

He turned and watched Gary Sykes exit the living room, shrugging  
into a navy shirt, his bright blonde hair practically glowing in the  
unlit hallway.

"Gazza? Make us a cuppa?"

And don't forget the biscuits, Mulder wanted to add, because it was  
almost 5 o'clock and Phoebe always had Bourbons or McVitties  
chocolate digestives with her late afternoon tea. Or toast, if she was  
really hungry. Cheese toast with a smear of brown sauce. Sometimes,  
when she felt like she was 'slumming it', she would make him get a  
macaroni pie or a sausage roll, hot from the chippie.

But he was the only one who knew that. 

Right?

"I want beans on my toast, too!"

Mulder ghosted by the living room, his one brief glance inside searing  
the image of her reclining on the sofa, a white sheet slipping off of her  
perfectly pale shoulders.

"Hey, who ate all the fucking Tunnocks?" Sykes muttered, turning  
away from the cabinet as Mulder rounded the kitchen table. " _Fuck -_ "

Mulder grabbed Sykes' shoulder and almost landed his first blow,  
which would have been a solid punch to the chin if momentum hadn't  
kept the other man turning away. Unfortunately his follow through  
was shit, and unable to stop his own forward drive, he found himself  
facing away from Sykes instead.

Which gave Sykes the advantage, and he took it, grasping Mulder's  
shoulders and smashing him against the kitchen table. Rage had  
Mulder shoving the table away, unmindful of cups and saucers  
shattering on the ancient brick-brown linoleum. He spun back,  
catching the tail of Sykes' shirt and pulling him back. He wrapped one  
arm around Sykes' neck and squeezed, trying to catch hold of the other  
man's flailing arms at the same time. Sykes managed to pluck off  
Mulder's grasp and spun away, whipping Mulder into the stove.

"Stop! Stop it!" Phoebe cried from the vicinity of the doorway.

Mulder paid her no attention, having narrowly missed burning his  
face on the solid electric plate heating up the teapot. Twisting to one  
side he sucked in a scream as he rolled on bruises from his fight with  
Dennis Keogh. Distracted by the pain, he failed to move out of the way  
of Sykes' fist a couple of times and after the bright white flashes  
stopped, he ended up on the floor, not sure of how he had gotten there  
or why.

He squinted up at all four of Sykes and Phoebe. They were looking  
down at him and while he understood she shouldn't be leaning  
against Sykes like that, the reason quite escaped him. But it was  
wrong.

Sykes was grinning, jostling Phoebe as he jittered up and down on his  
toes. Mulder wished he would stop moving, it was making him ill. As  
the multiples began to coalesce into singles, he slowly clambered to  
his feet, taking a moment to retch helplessly from the nausea. The  
kettle on the stove began its shrill whistle, too late to warn Mulder  
that the stove was on. Groggy and listing to the right, he gave his  
unpleasant housemate and soon to be ex-girlfriend a wide berth,  
heading into the blessedly dark hallway.

It was a struggle to put on his soaked jacket, and the headache he  
hadn't known he had was pounding in full force after he picked up his  
bag of dirty laundry. He caught movement from the corner of his eye  
and jerked sideways, putting his back to the wall in case Sykes was  
trying to get in another lick. But no, it was just Phoebe. Phoebe, still  
wrapped in her white sheet. He could see the outline of her body  
through it from the kitchen light.

"Fox, I'm so sorry," she said, her voice tight with excitement. With  
malice. "Fox, I never meant for any of this to happen - "

"You never do," he said, wanting to turn his back on her, too wary to  
do so. He turned just enough to see her outstretched hands, but her  
face, no, he never wanted to look at her face again.

"Fox, what can I do to make it up to you?"

" _Mulder, _" he mumbled around his sore jaw. "Just...call me Mulder."__

__

__~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_ _

__Your favorite trick was to suck me inside  
\--Gary Numan - Everyday I Die_ _

__~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_ _

__

__~fin~_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My end notes were too long for AO3, and I just! can't! type them all in again with their emphases, so if you scroll 3/4's of the way down [this page](http://xfdryad.livejournal.com/12930.html), you'll find details of why I had to write this story, the crossover characters, plus what books were useful. For my full list of recommended texts, head on over [here](http://dazzleships.net/puritycontrol/the-bibliography/) (I do the reading so you don't have to!).
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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